


The Sweetness Makes the Smoke and Stings Worthwhile

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Closet Sex, Dancing, Drinking, Emotions, Epistolary, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Heartache, Hotel Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inexperienced Sherlock, Intercrural Sex, Letters, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reunion Sex, Secret Relationship, Separations, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Skinny Dipping, Slow Burn, Student John, Student Sherlock, Summer, Summer Romance, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-10-07 23:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 70,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10372659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: After nearly being expelled from university, Sherlock is banished home to Musgrave Hall for the summer. A friend introduces him to John Watson, a handsome medical student visiting the area. Sherlock and John find themselves drawn to each other, falling into a summer romance that may be as painful as it is sweet. Although they follow different paths, their feelings for each other still haunt them, their love finally coming full circle years later.This is now complete!For those concerned about Mary and Victor, they appear only briefly and as very background characters. My version of Mary is not modeled on the BBC version. She is more of an original character, if anything.





	1. Part 1: Summer

_**Late May, 1923** _

The trunk hit the wooden floor with a ponderous _whump,_ sounding to Sherlock like the door of prison cell closing, blocking out all hope with its finality. He collapsed onto the bed, his back aching from helping to lug the heavy trunk up the stairs to his bedroom, his mother leading the way.

“Thank you, Thomas. That will be all.” Mrs. Holmes dismissed the gardener, who had carried the other end of the trunk up from the car. He touched his cap and left the room.

Mrs. Holmes now stood by the window peeling off her driving gloves, prattling on about how the neighbor’s dog had been digging in her flower garden again, ruining the delphiniums.

Sherlock's eyes went glassy. She had not stopped talking since she picked him up at the train station, rambling on about the weather, her migraines, his need for a haircut, avoiding any overtly disagreeable subjects. She would get to those later, he was sure.

Mrs. Holmes fussed with the curtains and straightened the lamp on his desk.

“You'll find not much has changed,” she declared, casting a glance around the bedroom. “After you unpack your things, come down for tea. You're thin as a stick.”

Sherlock barely grunted an acknowledgement.

His mother stopped, folded her hands over her stomach, and fixed him with a hard gaze. “I know you didn't want to come home for the summer. But your own poor choices landed you here.” She waited a beat as if expecting an apology.

Sherlock offered none, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

She frowned, then forced a cheerful smile. “I suggest you make the best of it, young man.”

Her heels tapped sternly as she left his room, and Sherlock shoved the door with his foot, shutting it with a bang.

God, this was agony. Here he was, imprisoned back in his childhood home for the next three months instead of traveling like he had planned. Other people his age were touring the continent, indulging in the decadent pleasures of Paris and Pamplona. Not that he had anyone to travel with… Still, he would have gone alone, made his way.

He turned over onto his side, staring bleakly out the window at the treetops and pale sky. His first year at university had included a few rough patches, but the second year had proven more difficult. It wasn't the academics; that part was easy. It was the people -- idiot classmates, pompous lecturers -- and the stupid rules.

Nevertheless, university life offered some degree of freedom and intellectual stimulation. Being forced to return to the family estate under a cloud of disgrace was humiliating.

He sighed. There was absolutely nothing to do here but die a slow death from boredom. The house, Musgrave Hall, was cool and quiet thanks to the thick stone walls, plush rugs, and heavy drapes that lined the narrow windows.

The nearest village was dull, and the sprinkle of summer tourists seeking fresh air and long hikes by the lakes were equally uninteresting. He’d read every book lining the shelves of his room. His parents did nothing but potter around the house and gardens, lost in their own absent-minded pursuits.

He sighed again, resigned to a summer of studying the stack of textbooks he'd slipped from the university library, taking solitary walks, and sneaking cigarettes far from the house.

Sherlock punched the pillow next to his head with a sudden viciousness. If that bloody little snitch Anderson hadn't been skulking around and reported him to the proctor, he'd be crossing the Channel right now.

He knew he should grateful to his parents for salvaging his academic career. Only their influence had prevented him from being expelled. At the moment, however, he felt very little gratitude.

Damn Anderson, and damn this drafty old tomb of a house.

 

*****************

Sherlock eventually rose from his bed, pulled on his linen jacket, and smoothed down his unruly hair, girding himself for tea. The unpacking could wait.

He slouched into the library and slumped into a chair across from his mother. As she poured him a cup of tea, he grabbed three biscuits from a serving plate, earning a disapproving look.

“Your father will be home at six,” Mrs. Holmes said, passing him the sugar. “He's at one of his meetings. History Society or some such thing.”

“Hm.” Sherlock's eyes traveled over the shelves groaning with books. They were drowning in history right here.

Mrs. Holmes lightly tapped the edge of her saucer with a fingertip, a habit that Sherlock knew all too well. It meant he was going to get a lecture.

“I might as well say this now, since your father won't do it.” She paused, setting her cup down. “We’re extremely disappointed with your behavior.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, keeping them fixed on his tea.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I'm sorry.”

Mrs. Holmes inclined her head slightly.

“That I got caught,” he added peevishly.

His mother let out a sharp breath in exasperation. “Ten citations for breaking curfew. Six physical altercations. Failure to attend class regularly.” She ticked off his offenses on her fingers. “Unauthorized use of laboratory equipment in your rooms. Theft of anatomy materials -- human bones, for God’s sake -- and to top it off, three vials of liquid cocaine found in a box under your bed.”

Sherlock shifted in his chair, relieved she didn't know about the morphine. “I was curious,” he offered weakly.

“There is curious, and there is stupid,” Mrs. Holmes spat out.

Sherlock blinked, stung by her words. “My marks are perfectly fine.”

“But your reputation is not,” she snapped back. A moment later she softened slightly. “You've always been preternaturally inquisitive. I'm afraid your disregard for caution has added a layer of self-sabotage to the mix.” Her perfect posture wilted, the corners of her mouth drawn down in worry.

Guilt seized Sherlock's chest. He was upsetting her, just like his older brother, Mycroft, always said he did.

“I apologize.” Sherlock kept his gaze averted.

His mother said nothing, toying with her necklace. Her silence was worse than a lecture.

“I'll try to do better,” he added, unusually contrite.

She looked at him, tired. “I hope you succeed.”

 

***************

Little clouds of dust drifted around Sherlock's feet as he scuffed along a gravel path that led to the farthest gardens. He shoved his hands deeper into his trouser pockets, his shoulders rounded.

He replayed the conversation with his mother in his head, wincing at the long list of his transgressions. He never intended to stir up trouble; it just sort of followed him. Always had. His sharp tongue, fast wit, recklessness, and impatience often landed him in difficult situations that required him to flatter, fight, or flee his way out of.

He stopped under a large oak tree and leaned against the rough bark, pulling a slim cigarette case from his jacket pocket. He wedged a cigarette between his lips, struck a match, and inhaled, welcoming the rush of nicotine.

He scanned the evening sky, then his eye was caught by movement along the road that led to town. He made out one, then two bicyclists, one male, one female. He gradually recognized the young woman, Molly Hooper, a local girl a year or so younger than himself.

Her brunette hair was bobbed short, a few loose ends wisping around her face. She turned her head and laughed at the young man riding alongside. Sherlock didn't recognize him. Light brown hair, a quick smile, square jaw, muscled forearms. He was tanned, athletic. Likely a tourist.

They rode by in a flash, their laughter carrying across the breeze. Sherlock watched them disappear into small dots, smoke curling from his nostrils.

They were probably going to a dance or the cinema or some nonsense. Nothing he cared about. He smoked the cigarette down to a nub, ignoring the flicker of envy that licked at his ribs.

 

**************

The young man on the bicycle turned his head, glancing back at the smudge of white under a tree. He had gotten the fleeting impression of a lanky figure, dark hair, haughty face.

Curious, he squinted, slowing down.

“Come on, John!” Molly teased, now several lengths ahead. “Keep up!”

John tore his eyes away and pedaled hard, catching up to Molly.

“Who was that back there?” he asked, tilting his head toward the stately stone house they were passing.

“Where? I didn't see.”

“Someone about our age. Tall, thin fellow with dark hair.”

“Oh, maybe it was Sherlock, back from university.”

“Sherlock,” John repeated. “Odd name.”

“Odd family,” Molly joked, snorting a bit. “Sorry, that sounded mean. It's just, they're really smart, brilliant even. But a bit… different.”

“You know them?”

“A bit. Sherlock was a year ahead of me, and he has an older brother who works for the Home Office. Their mother was a mathematician once… She supposedly helped on all this very hush-hush stuff during the war.”

Intrigued, John flicked one more glance back, a row of hedges obscuring everything but the numerous chimneys punctuating the roofline of the manor.

He turned his attention back to the road, still thinking about Sherlock. Molly was the only person he'd met so far who was anywhere near his age. He'd arrived in the village just a week ago with his mother, pressed into duty to help look after his ailing great aunt. Hardly the way he had pictured the summer unfolding.

His mother was doing the caretaking, while he was assigned the role of gardener, handyman, errand boy, mechanic, and anything else needed to repair Great Aunt Helen’s long-neglected cottage and rambling yard.

It was just for the summer, he reminded himself, trying to quell the spike of resentment he felt. His mother needed him, he told himself guiltily. His father was finally dead, his sister Harriet was useless, and his mother was an aimless, nervous wreck. She needed someone to look after to give her a sense of purpose, and he needed to look after her.

The good son, he thought ruefully. Better late than never. At least he could try.


	2. Chapter 2

_Beautiful art by[221booksinthetardis.](http://221booksinthetardis.tumblr.com/) Shared with permission._

 

 _  
_ Sherlock slept in late, burying his head under the covers to block out the insistent sunlight. He finally dressed and wandered downstairs, accepting the marmalade toast and strong tea that the cook, Mrs. Turner, grudgingly offered late-risers for breakfast. The young maid, Elizabeth, bobbed an awkward curtsy as he passed her in the hall.

It was strange to be back home after being on his own for so long. He’d half forgotten the formalities and rituals that life at Musgrave Hall demanded.

He found his father outside tending to the royal blue Vauxhall four-seater, carefully wiping dust off the bonnet. Caring for the sleek touring car was one of his many hobbies, along with cultivating roses, dabbling in painting, and taking part in various clubs.

Mr. Holmes looked up and smiled in greeting. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Sherlock answered, running a hand along the smooth metal of the car.

Mr. Holmes rubbed at a stubborn spot. “So, what are your plans for today?”

“Oh, I don't know… seeking penance for my sins?”

Mr. Holmes tried to suppress a small smile. “I take it your mother talked to you yesterday.”

“She did.”

“She's right, you know.” Mr. Holmes continued to work the rag over the car. “If I wasn't acquainted with the vice-chancellor, you might have been expelled.”

“I've been made aware of that fact.” Sherlock wiped a speck of dust off the passenger door. “I shall be more discreet.”

“Good lad.”

That would be the end of the matter from his father. He was a man of few words, perennially cheerful, often lost in his own thoughts. Events both pleasant and unpleasant tended to wash over him, leaving him largely unruffled, at least on the outside. He wasn't emotionless; it was more of a shrugging acceptance of whatever the fates cared to dish out. Sherlock marveled at this, wondering what it would be like to be so naturally placid.

“Your mother is writing a book.”

Sherlock looked up at this bit of news. “Really? What about?”

“Thermodynamics. At least, I believe that's the topic. Continuing with some work from her university days.” Mr. Holmes walked to the front of the car and dabbed at a few smudges on the headlamps. “Thought you might be sort of an assistant for her this summer. Proofreading, organizing notes, that sort of thing. God knows I'm no use with all that.”

Sherlock considered this suggestion. His understanding of his mother’s area of expertise was rudimentary, but the work would help pass the time, if nothing else. “I'll ask her about it.”

“I might have a few gardening things for you to do, too. Thomas is taking some time to visit his new granddaughter.”

“Alright.” Sherlock didn't mind a bit of work outdoors. It would help him stay fit, since he wanted to try out boxing when he was back at uni. He would love to learn how to land a solid punch on several over-bred, weak-chinned faces he had in mind.

Mr. Holmes worked his way around the other side of the car. “Is there anybody you’d like to invite up for a few days later this summer? Any mates?”

Sherlock fingered the cigarette case in his pocket. “Didn't really hit it off with anyone…”

“Ah. Well, maybe next term then.”

Sherlock could easily think of enemies, but friends? No. Most people were put off by his sharp tongue and unusually keen observations. They rarely talked to him or even met his eye unless they had to. Apparently, he was intimidating.

For a split second, the easy smile of the brown-haired young man on the bicycle flashed through his mind. People were drawn to someone like that, confident and good-looking. He bit at his thumbnail, suddenly curious to know who the stranger was.

Mr. Holmes gave the car one last wipe, then stepped back to admire his work. “Want to take her out for a spin sometime?”

Sherlock's eyes lit up at the offer. “How about now?”

Mr. Holmes looked stricken at the thought of the car getting dirty again so soon. “Erm, maybe later this week.”

Sherlock sighed impatiently, then another thought quickly followed. “My old bike -- is it still in the garage?”

“I think so. I’ll have Thomas bring it out, if you'd like.”

“No, I can do it. I might fancy a ride into town this afternoon.”

 

*************

After retrieving his bicycle, Sherlock spent the rest of the morning cleaning it, checking the tires, and greasing the chain, just as Thomas had taught him years ago.

He gave it a test ride, remembering how often he and Mycroft used to pedal to the lake a short distance away. They'd spent hours collecting smooth, round stones along the shoreline and studying the creatures that lived in the water. Those days were long past. The last time he'd seen Mycroft was at Christmas; they'd argued and set off one of their mother’s migraines.

After lunch, Sherlock retired to his room and read a little, falling asleep after just a few pages. He woke an hour later to find the book still open on his chest, surprised that he'd drifted off. He clearly wasn’t used to all this fresh country air and sunshine, he mused.

After waking fully, he returned to the bike he had left leaning against the side of the garage. Bending down, he rolled up the cuff of his right trouser leg to prevent it from getting caught in the chain. He then rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt and pulled a pair of dark sunglasses from his pocket.

He swung onto the bicycle and pedaled, enjoying the crunch of the gravel under the wheels. He turned onto the road and pumped his legs faster, finding joy in the speed and movement, a small taste of freedom.

 

**********

John stretched his back and groaned, his muscles aching from crouching in an awkward position for so long. He was weeding one of the many flower beds in Aunt Helen’s yard, pulling out stubborn roots and runners that had invaded the once tidy beds.

It felt like a hopeless task. The weeds would creep back in eventually, and all his work would be for nothing. Still, it would make his great aunt happy to see her daisies and snapdragons blooming again, free of choking weeds.

He wiped sweat from his brow, assessing which spot to tackle next. He looked toward the beds that lined the walkway to the house. He should probably work on those, in case any visitors came by. He doubted his aunt had many guests, since she lived such a long walk from the village. His mother was trying to convince her to move into town.

John was about to start in again when he saw Molly spinning along the road on her bicycle, waving at him enthusiastically, causing her to wobble a bit. He lifted a hand in return, concerned she might fall, but she didn't seem perturbed. In fact, she was grinning and quite flushed.

John walked toward the road to greet her, then saw another bicyclist leisurely closing the gap behind her. Dark wavy hair, long limbs, well-cut clothes. It was the same young man he'd seen lounging against the tree last evening. Sherlock.

“Hello, John!” Molly called out, skidding to a halt. “Look who I found.”

John pulled off his leather work gloves, taking the time to study Molly’s companion as he came to a smooth stop beside her. Sherlock's expression was neutral, his eyes hidden behind the round tortoiseshell sunglasses with lenses tinted a deep brown.

“John, this is Sherlock Holmes,” Molly introduced them, “and Sherlock, this is John Watson. He’s visiting his great aunt this summer. Oh, and his mum is here too.”

John offered his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

John’s hand was engulfed in a brief press of a huge palm and fine-boned fingers.

“How ’do.”

John's mouth quirked up at the fashionably bored greeting, surprised at the deepness of Sherlock's voice. He noticed that Sherlock hadn't bothered to remove his sunglasses. Rather a rude fellow. He switched his gaze back to Molly. “What are you up to today?”

“Oh, just running an errand for my father.” She indicated the brown paper package nestled in the wire basket attached to the handle bars. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“He's a funeral director, you know,” Sherlock offered.

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock in surprise, then back to Molly. She hadn't mentioned that particular fact. She was so bubbly, he had a hard time picturing her living in a somber funeral home. His gaze fell to the package.

“Oh, it's not body parts or anything,” she blurted, then laughed.

John saw the hint of a smile form on Sherlock's lips.

“And what brings you to town?” John asked him, trying to see behind the dark lenses.

Sherlock paused. “Red ink.”

John raised an eyebrow, and Molly tilted her head quizzically.

“For making edits. My mother is writing a book on advanced mathematics, and I'm assisting her this summer.”

John was distracted by the rich baritone, but not so much that he missed Sherlock's less-than-subtle allusion to his own mathematical brilliance. The superiority in his manner made John bristle. “A proper mathematical genius, are you?”

John could feel Sherlock's cool gaze on him, and he was suddenly aware of the dirt staining his knees and the sweat that dampened his shirt. He gripped his gloves in one hand.

“I wouldn't say that, exactly. But you… I’d say that you're a medical student who likes a good drink -- maybe too much -- and worries he’ll turn out like his recently deceased father… He was a doctor too, wasn't he?”

John's jaw tightened as his eyes burned into Sherlock.

“Oh, dear,” Molly murmured, then tried to intervene. “He does that. Don't be mad.”

“How did you know that?” John gritted out.

“Simple observation, really. There's an anatomy text lying under that tree over there, along with a rather poorly hidden silver flask. And I assume the woman wearing black who just peered out the window is your recently widowed mother. The bit about your father was an educated guess. After all, here you are, spending a dull summer pulling weeds for your auntie… Trying to make up for past disappointments, perhaps? And the medical profession tends to run in families, so…” Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

John stared at him, annoyed, humiliated, and although he hated to admit it, impressed.

“You must make so many friends with parlor tricks like that,” John snapped sarcastically.

Sherlock's expression didn't change. “No, I don't.”

John wanted to tear his gaze away, but couldn't, confused by the strange mix of reactions flying through his brain. He was intrigued by Sherlock, but he also wanted to push the arrogant prick off his bike, knock the sunglasses off his face, and look into his eyes to see what he was really going on behind all that talk.

Molly cleared her throat, breaking the tension. “Um, I think we should be going.” She looked pointedly at Sherlock until he glanced over at her. She put a foot on a pedal. “Are we still on for Saturday?” she asked John.

John nodded stiffly. “Sure.”

He watched them ride away, still unnerved at how accurately Sherlock had read him. He pulled his gloves back on roughly and began to yank at weeds, cursing himself for leaving the flask within view. He'd cut back on the drinking, but sometimes he still needed a sip to calm his nerves.

Even though it was summer, he still felt the pressure from university, the intensity to prove himself. His family wasn't wealthy, and his father, who had, in fact, been a doctor, had left the profession in less than good standing. John felt like he had to work twice as hard as the other students just to keep up. Of course, his own reckless nature -- late nights out carousing, a hot temper, a few drunken pub brawls, a string of jilted lovers -- didn't make things easier, either.

And after summer was over, another challenge awaited: the Royal Army Medical Corps. Basic training, more courses, then off to serve wherever His Majesty deemed necessary. He wanted to feel nonchalant, but his stomach knotted every time he thought about it, partly from fear, partly from excitement. He wanted to travel and experience the world. He wanted to taste danger and be tested by situations that would never happen in a safe little village like this.

John dug at a chunk of roots, still ruminating. He’d never gotten along with his father; he had been a heavy drinker, slipping into black moods, blaming others for his misfortunes, letting his practice slide toward disaster and his fists fly in anger…

John did not want to end up like that bitter, broken man. He would do better than his father. He'd tame his wild streak and master his baser impulses. He'd become an officer and return a successful, accomplished doctor.

John's back and shoulders ached, but he kept working, pushing himself harder, trying not to think about his father, his future, or Sherlock Holmes.

 

*****************

As he rode into the village beside Molly, Sherlock kicked himself for being so aloof. He shouldn't have said anything about editing his mother's book; he hadn't even approached her about it yet. Everything had just tumbled uncensored from his mouth in some misguided attempt to impress John. Meeting him, feeling the confidence in his firm handshake and direct gaze, seeing the flask juxtaposed with the medical text, piecing together his story in rapid sequence -- it rattled him.

So did John's blue eyes, the color deepening as they shifted from mild amusement to a quick flash of anger. He noticed the way John had clenched his fist at his side, the faint smell of whiskey mixing with overturned soil and perspiration, the set of his jaw -- John Watson was clever, outwardly conforming, but hiding a dark streak that ran toward danger.

Sherlock had instantly recognized a sharp edge in John that other people didn't see. It resonated with his own inner darkness, which was a thrilling, novel discovery. But it was exactly what he didn't need. He had promised to do better, to _be_ better, to stay out of trouble.

He glanced at Molly, who smiled at him. He didn't know her that well, although they had played together as children and met occasionally at social events and village pageants over the years. She had always been kind to him, playing or talking with him when the others wouldn't.

Molly was something of an outcast herself. The other kids had whispered that she lived in a haunted house full of dead bodies and ghosts. She never seemed bothered by the taunts, honing a very practical yet quirky outlook on life.

“You didn't care much for John, I take it,” she said, glancing at him.

“That's not true,” Sherlock protested. “I just met him.”

“But you did that thing you do, reading people… just like you knew I was helping my father this morning with one look.”

“One sniff,” he corrected. “Formaldehyde. And the red marks on your neck from the apron strings.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock saw her lift her hand and sniff it, wrinkling her nose.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I was hoping that you two might get along, not start fighting.”

Sherlock looked at her again, considering something new. “Are you and John... ?”

Molly's cheeks went red. “What? No! I'm just being friendly.”

Their conversation faded as they neared the village, several cars and bicyclists weaving around them.

“This is me,” Molly announced, slowing by the post office.

Sherlock nodded a goodbye, remembering that he had to follow through on his story about the red ink.

“Hey,” she called out after him. “John and I are going to the lake on Saturday afternoon. Do you want to come along?”

Sherlock came to a stop, surprised by the offer. Normally he would have said no, but the thought of seeing John again was oddly tempting. Molly was waiting expectantly for his answer. “Sure.”

She smiled again. “Great. Meet us at the boathouse at three o'clock.”

Sherlock watched her practically skip into the post office with the package tucked under her arm. Somehow, she seemed to have taken both John and himself under her wing for the summer as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far, hello! So this my latest project that I've (foolishly?) decided to post as a work in progress. I'm challenging myself to write longer form this time, which is kind of scary for someone who gravitates to short stories. Life is busy, I'll do my best to post regularly, and, by god, I will finish what I started. Thanks for coming along for this summer slow burn!


	3. Chapter 3

On Saturday, Sherlock convinced his parents to lend him the car for the afternoon. He had behaved impeccably all week, offering to assist his mother with her book and helping his father with the garden. Both had put him to work immediately, the mornings filled with checking equations and organizing files, the afternoons hauling bags of bone meal for roses and trimming overgrown hedges.

By the weekend he was ready to flee the house and his parents. He gritted his teeth at the small smile they exchanged when his mother pressed him into revealing that he was meeting Molly and her friend at the lake.

“Molly Hooper?” Mrs. Holmes tapped her chin thoughtfully. “She's the funeral director’s daughter, isn't she? Pretty girl… Dreadful atmosphere to grow up in, I should think.”

“I can think of worse,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“And who's her friend?”

“Just some bloke visiting his great aunt for the summer. John something.”

“Hm.” His mother had either lost interest in the conversation or was unimpressed.

Mr. Holmes glanced up absently from the newspaper. “Be good to her. Don't go too fast.”

Sherlock stared at him, appalled at the implication until he realized his father was referring to the car. His parents could be so damned irritating at times.

“I'm leaving now,” he announced, exiting the room quickly before they could say anything else.

The lake wasn't far away so he drove the opposite direction, enjoying the low rumble of the powerful engine and a few minutes of solitude. He pressed down on the accelerator, gaining speed.

Truth be told, he felt nervous about seeing John again, worried that he would come off as an arse. At least Molly would be there. She had a way of putting everyone at ease.

He eventually turned around and headed back toward the lake, his hands tightening on the wheel when the boathouse came into view. Molly and John were sitting on the wooden dock, their bikes dropped in the grass and their feet dangling in the water. Molly waved and stood up, her yellow dress bright against the backdrop of the water.

Sherlock climbed out of the car, took off his sunglasses, and anchored them just above the top button of his waistcoat. Molly skirted around him, chattering about the picnic she had planned and rummaging for a blanket in the back seat as John sauntered over to them.

John had his thumbs hooked casually through his braces layered over a pale blue shirt. He inclined his head in the barest of greetings. This time Sherlock held out his hand. “Hello, John.”

Sherlock waited as John flicked his gaze down to his palm, and was relieved when he finally clasped his hand. John looked up at him, his mouth set in a hard line, their hands still entwined. When their eyes met, the hard line suddenly wavered, a small shiver passing through John's body.

Sherlock looked closer, trying to read John's reaction, but John disengaged his hand, turning his face away.

“Got it!” Molly held up a red plaid blanket in triumph, then bustled back toward the dock, stooping to pick up a basket stuffed with food that she had left near her bicycle.

Sherlock tracked John's movements as he circled the Vauxhall, skimming his fingers along the curved back fender. “It's a sweet car,” John said with admiration.

“It's not mine.”

“Your parents’?”

Sherlock nodded. “I get to borrow it now and then, if I'm good.”

John ran his hand along the buttery grain of the leather passenger seat. He glanced up at Sherlock through long lashes. “Have you been bad?”

The question was asked casually, but Sherlock’s tongue was suddenly tied. The way John stroked the leather, the phrasing and tone of the words rattled him again. “I… I’ve had some rough spots.”

John tilted his head. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.” Sherlock estimated that John was two or three years older.

“Huh. Not a lost cause yet.” John moved to the bonnet, sliding his hand along the shiny blue surface. “What are you studying at university?”

“Chemistry, some geology and botany.”

John stopped. “Is it easy for you?”

Sherlock hesitated, but only briefly. “Yes.” He wasn’t very good at being modest.

John smiled wryly. “Must be nice, having everything come so easily.” He swiped a finger across the bonnet ornament.

Sherlock was silenced again, knowing his family's position gave him innumerable advantages.

Molly's voice carried up from the water. “Who wants something to eat?”

They both turned their heads to where Molly was standing by the red blanket now laden with food. Sherlock looked back at John, wondering what to say.

John smoothed back a lock of hair from his forehead and glanced away. “I don’t know about you, but I'm famished,” he said curtly, striding toward the picnic.

Sherlock slowly followed, still uncertain about what John thought of him.

 

*******************

Molly had laid out a tray of sandwiches along with a bowl of first-of-the-season strawberries and a plate of biscuits, and John passed around several bottles of beer. Sherlock realized too late that he should have brought something to share. Social niceties never were his forte.

Molly kept the conversation going, sharing morbidly ridiculous stories about her life at the funeral home.

“In some ways I'm going to miss it when I go back to university,” she sighed, taking another bite of ham sandwich.

“Really?” John asked. He was lying on his side, his head propped up on his hand.

“Mm hmm,” she nodded. “Death is fascinating, don't you think? We're so frail. We're here one minute, then _poof!_ We're gone.”

John plucked a blade of grass and studied it. “That's why I like medicine. We can stop death, or at least delay it.”

“Oh, I'd like to be a doctor too,” Molly said. “But my mother has always pushed me into nursing.”

“Your mother is wrong,” Sherlock interjected.

Molly blinked at him, surprised.

“You'd make an excellent doctor.” He reached for another ginger biscuit. “Death is inevitable, regardless. What's really interesting is the why and how of it.”

“What do you mean?” John asked.

“Why do we die? Car crash? Heart failure? Bullet to the brain? Could be a million things. But how it happens -- natural or unnatural causes, accident or foul play -- that's the good stuff.”

Molly grinned. “Like when old Mrs. Winterbottom poisoned her husband -- remember that? We were just kids. It made all the papers.”

“Exactly. It took the police forever to figure it out. But a good autopsy and chemical analysis could have led them to their killer much more quickly.”

John scoffed and rolled onto his back. “I suppose you read all those scandal sheets and crime stories.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Of course I do. Sensational literature provides an excellent window into the dark depths of the human soul.”

“I thought you were student of chemistry, not psychology,” John countered, taking a bite out of a strawberry.

“They’re often connected,” Sherlock responded without elaborating. He took a sip of beer, noting how John regarded him for a long moment until he turned to Molly.

“So Molly,” John began, changing the subject, “I saw you go by with more packages and letters this week. I think you have a sweetheart from uni that you’re writing to,” he teased.

“Ha! Not likely.” Molly popped part of a biscuit into her mouth. “I went to dances with a few different boys, but…”

“But what?”

“They were nice enough, but they were all just... sort of…”

“Boring?” Sherlock supplied.

Molly looked guilty. “Yes. I don’t know. All they talked about was cricket or the weather. Nothing really exciting.” She shifted her eyes to John. “What about you? Anyone special?”

John flicked a strawberry stem into the grass. “There was a girl, and then there wasn’t. And then there were quite a few others, and the last one dumped an entire pint of lager into my lap because I accidentally called her the wrong name. I might have deserved that.”

Although John’s tone was light, Sherlock noted the undercurrent of self-mockery and an edge of bitterness in his voice. Distracted, he was caught off guard when John looked directly at him.

“Your turn,” John said. “Confession time.”

Sherlock’s mouth went dry. “There’s nothing to confess.”

“Come on,” John cajoled. “There must be something.”

“I don’t really --” Sherlock stopped, not even knowing what word to use, faltering out a weak substitute. “-- socialize.”

“Why the hell not?” John asked, disbelief in his voice. “With that face, you could have anybody.”

Sherlock felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He hated this type of personal talk. “I don’t _want_ anybody,” he snapped angrily. “Romantic entanglements are an unnecessary distraction.”

His outburst was effective -- John quickly turned his attention to the water and Molly bit her bottom lip.

After a few more awkward moments of silence, John got to his feet. “I think I’ll go for walk.”

Sherlock kept his eyes lowered, waiting for Molly to leave too. He was used to driving people away.

To his surprise she stayed, handing him the bowl of strawberries. “Try one. They're really sweet.”

He took a bright red berry, wishing he could undo the last few minutes.

“I wonder when the water will be warm enough for a swim,” Molly mused idly. They both watched the sun sparkle on the lake. “It's okay,” she added softly, “to like to be alone.”

“I know,” he answered, secretly glad she was sitting next to him.

 

*******************

John walked quickly, angry and embarrassed at his own behavior. He shouldn't have pried when Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable. And Jesus, he had blurted out that thing about his face…

His face. And those damned eyes that nearly made his knees buckle.

Meeting Sherlock again, John had been prepared to remain politely distant. He’d reluctantly clasped Sherlock’s hand in greeting, but then he looked into those eyes -- up close, no sunglasses hiding them, a storm of blue and green and gold -- and he felt a tremor like thunder shake him to his core.

After that, he barely knew what he was doing. One moment he was flirting with Sherlock by the car, then nearly insulting him, ignoring him, needling him, prying into his private life -- but, God, he wanted to know if there was a girlfriend, or anyone…

John paused under the shade of a tree along the shoreline, trying to sort out his thoughts. He'd been instantly smitten before -- a coy smile, a shapely figure, a certain walk -- all had riveted his attention for a few hours or days or weeks. Inevitably, though, the initial infatuation cooled.

But this -- this visceral response -- was new. And rather alarming.

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He was overreacting. It was just a strange jolt of attraction to a very unusual pair of eyes.

Besides, this wasn't the first time he'd been drawn to another man. A memory from his first year shimmered in his mind: A bare shoulder, tousled blond hair on the pillow next to him. He recalled pushing himself up on one elbow to squint at the clock, his head throbbing and his mouth dry, hungover.

His bed companion shifted, groaning a little and curling deeper under the covers. The night came back in fragments -- it had begun as a drunken evening out with a friend, stumbling home, arms looped over each other's shoulders, collapsing onto the bed, turning, bumping noses, laughing, then growing quieter. He didn't know who started kissing who, but it felt right, hands and lips freely exploring, giving in to a long-held curiosity. His name had been Michael...

John resurfaced to the present. There had been a few other fleeting encounters with men over the past years, always furtive, never lasting. It was curiosity, desire, playing with fire.

John looked back toward the boathouse, unable to see Molly or Sherlock. It was pointless to think about Sherlock this way -- he was reserved, posh, inexperienced, in many ways still a boy. But those eyes. That voice. A streak of rebelliousness. A firestorm in a bottle that John very much wanted to release.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. Molly and John took a small rowboat that belonged to Molly's family out onto the lake, while Sherlock stretched out on the blanket, leisurely smoking, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses again.

John was glad to be concentrating on rowing instead of thinking about Sherlock. It felt good to use his muscles, his arms and legs straining, the sun warming his back. He smiled at Molly, who was peering over the side of the boat looking for fish.

He raised the oars and rested for a moment, letting the boat drift. He watched Molly trail her hand in the water, apparently lost in her own thoughts. He admired how the sunlight played over her glossy hair and slender arms, and noticed a faint tan line forming just above her elbow where her forearms peeked out beneath her sleeves.

She was smart, funny, attractive… If he was wise, he'd focus on her for the summer, woo her, see how far he could get.

He winced. Christ, he was such a bastard. She was his friend, not a just a random girl in the pub or on the train. He liked her too much to treat her like just another plaything. She was sweet, thoughtful, and frankly, much too good for him.

He gripped the oars again and started rowing, chastising himself. He needed to study and prepare for the Army. He couldn't afford to treat everything like a game or size up every pretty face as a potential conquest. He needed to grow up.

His shoulders ached and he glanced toward the shore to judge how far they’d gone out. He could just make out the red blanket and Sherlock's long frame lying across it. It was best to keep his distance, he decided. That would be the smartest course.

 

*****************

Molly needed to be home in time for dinner, so they packed up the picnic basket, folded the blanket, and loaded Molly's bicycle into the back of the car. She climbed into the passenger seat beside Sherlock.

“I can drop you off too,” Sherlock offered to John. “There should be room enough.”

“No thanks,” John declined, swinging onto his bike. “I can manage.”

“Suit yourself.” Sherlock started the engine and Molly called out a farewell and waved.

He dropped her off and helped unload her belongings, managing to avoid having to chat with her father or mother. He wasn't ready to return home yet, so he drove aimlessly, not really thinking about where he was going until he recognized the house where John was staying. He slowed, catching sight of John dismounting from his bicycle near the garage.

John looked up at the sound of the car slowing, his eyes narrowing when Sherlock pulled into the lane and came to a stop. Sherlock waited, the engine idling as John slowly walked toward him.

“Did you forget something?” John asked, standing a little distance from the car.

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't have a plan; he didn't even know why he'd stopped. John was looking at him, waiting for an explanation. He scrambled for an excuse. “I thought you might like to give it a try. Taking the car out for a drive, I mean.”

“Really?”

“You _can_ drive, can't you?”

“Of course.” John looked slightly insulted.

“Well, then. Get in.” Sherlock swung his legs up and slid over to the passenger seat, acting more confident than he felt.

John hesitated, glancing back at the house, then down at his feet as if wrestling with a decision. After a beat, he pulled open the door and got behind the wheel, taking a moment to familiarize himself with the controls. He put the car in reverse and backed up, then pointed the Vauxhaul away from town and toward the countryside.

Sherlock watched John's expression gradually relax as he got more comfortable with the car.

“It's so smooth,” John commented, surprise in his voice. “Nothing like my dad's old rattletrap. How fast can she go?”

“Theoretically, about 85. But my parents would disown me if they ever found out I tested that for myself.”

John glanced at him. “Have you?”

“Of course.”

John grinned, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile back.

“How about 70?” John suggested. “Would you be disinherited for that?”

This time Sherlock broke into a grin. “Seventy is much more reasonable than 85.”

They were on an open stretch of road, and Sherlock sat back as the car gained speed, the landscape blurring by, the wind tossing and tangling their hair.

He stole a glance at John: his eyes were sharp, focused on the road ahead, his hands firmly gripping the steering wheel, but his mouth was curved up in satisfaction. Sherlock could easily imagine him as a pilot flying into a firefight with that same expression. Or a surgeon taking charge of the operating room, lives dependent on his steady hands and skill.

John slowed down when they approached a good-sized hill, guiding the car up the incline at a respectful pace. He pulled over to a grassy patch along the side of the road when they reached the top, cutting the engine.

They gazed silently at the sweeping view of the valley below, green and gold pastures nestled together like quilt squares, hedge rows and sheep and glittering lakes dotting the surface.

“It's lovely,” John said quietly.

Seeing it through new eyes, Sherlock had to admit it had a certain beauty. For once, he kept his sarcasm in check. “It is, in a way,” he agreed. “Where did you grow up?”

“Small town, no one’s ever heard of it. My dad was the local doctor.” He slid his eyes to Sherlock. “But you already knew that.”

Sherlock ran a finger across the dashboard, leaving a trail in the dust. “I notice details.”

They fell silent again. Sherlock gazed at John's hands resting on the steering wheel. “Did you serve during the war?” he asked, suddenly curious. He guessed John was about the age where he might have done a year or two of service.

“No, I just missed it. My mum was always wringing her hands, worried I'd be called up. If it'd gone on another year… who knows? I might not be here.”

“Did you want to go?”

John took a few moments before answering, turning his hands over to inspect the callouses on his palms from the afternoon’s rowing. “Yes… and no. Anyway, I'll be in the Army soon enough.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, not understanding, and John told him about his plans for the RAMC in the autumn.

Sherlock absorbed the information, thinking about how much of the world John might have a chance to see. In some ways he envied him, but the endless routines, strict authority, and crowded conditions of military life were far from enticing. “That's very ambitious.”

“It's very pragmatic,“ John corrected. “It's my way out. There's nothing for me here if I don't become an officer.”

Sherlock didn't feel it was his place to agree or disagree, given his own safety net of family wealth, so he offered no comment. They continued to look over the valley. John shifted, and Sherlock could tell he was trying to work up the nerve to say something.

“Look, about earlier today,” John flexed his hands on the lower part of the steering wheel. “I'm sorry if I offended you. I asked a personal question. It's none of my business.”

Sherlock was surprised that John wanted to bring up that conversation, but dismissed it. “It's fine.”

He couldn't help but remember what else John had said: _With that face, you could have anybody._ He thought about the choice of words: John found him attractive, at least attractive enough to think that someone else would find him appealing. But what on earth did that mean?

“So you don't…” John stumbled, apparently not quite done with the subject, “you never see a girl you like… and maybe buy her a drink, take her out?”

Sherlock sighed. “No. I'm too busy with my studies. Not interested.”

“What about Molly?”

“I like Molly, but not in that way.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock willed John to shut up, not wanting to talk about it.

“I'm doing it again. Sorry,” John apologized. He rubbed his forehead, looking sheepish. He smoothed his hair back again, and Sherlock catalogued the motion as a nervous habit.

Somewhere nearby a bird warbled and a breeze ruffled their hair, loosening the lock John had just put back into place. “I suppose I should be getting home.”

Sherlock checked his watch. “Me too.” He was reluctant to leave, despite the awkwardness of the last few exchanges. But he could hardly insist that they stay longer.

He glanced over at John, about to say he'd trade places and drive back. John was staring at him, a strange look in his eyes. It was fleeting, but Sherlock caught a sense of inner conflict, as if he was holding himself back from doing or saying something he knew he shouldn't.

Several seconds went by, then John broke their gaze, taking a deep breath. “I'll just… move out of the way,” he muttered, pushing the door open and stepping out of the car.

Confused, Sherlock exited from the passenger side. They crossed paths in front of the car, their arms brushing as they passed. The contact made them both pull back sharply, each pretending they hadn't noticed.

Sherlock started the car and turned it around. He slipped on his sunglasses even though the sun was at his back. They didn't speak, deep in their own thoughts.

When he pulled up to John's aunt’s house, he finally dared to look at John again.

“Thanks.” John had his hand on the door handle, but wasn't making any other motion to leave the car.

Sherlock wished he knew what John was thinking. He wasn't able to interpret the mix of emotions flickering across John's face, but it made him feel uneasy -- did John want to stay longer or leave as quickly as possible?

“I'll see you around,” John finally said, wrenching the door open.

Sherlock watched him walk determinedly toward the house, not glancing back. With a crunch of gravel, he drove off, utterly confounded again. He thought they had been getting along well, finally breaking the ice a bit.

Maybe it was that blasted conversation about girls and Molly -- his stomach suddenly dropped. Oh God, maybe John suspected something. Maybe he was disgusted and wanted nothing to do with him. Sherlock chewed at his thumbnail, worried.

But there was another facet to consider. Little details in John's behavior, nuances in his expressions. His words. _With that face, you could have anybody._

Sherlock drove on, replaying the day, indecision and doubt swirling in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slooooww burn.... more to come!
> 
> In the meantime, want to know what the Vauxhall looks like? It really was a fast, sporty little number. [Here's a photo.](http://www.fiskens.com/cars-for-sale/Vauxhall--3098/9455.htm)
> 
> And some lovely [1920s women's day dresses.](http://vintagedancer.com/1920s/1920s-day-dresses/)


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock purposely buried himself in work the next few days, racing through all of the tasks his parents could find for him. Now at loose ends, he loitered in his mother's study, rearranging paper weights, fiddling with the stapler, and spinning the sepia-toned globe, desperate for something to occupy his mind.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Holmes snapped at him irritably from her cluttered desk. “Go read a book or something. I need some peace.”

He dragged himself to his room and leafed through a chemistry text, feeling like he already knew it by heart. He stared out the window, wondering what John was doing.

He hadn't ventured near John’s house, their last meeting leaving him too muddled to know what to say. It was easier to avoid the situation rather than try to address it directly.

He took his mother's advice and retrieved a volume of Shakespeare's works from the library, losing himself in _Henry V_ until lunchtime. He was about to climb the stairs to his room again after lunch when his father called him.

“Come on,” Mr. Holmes motioned him to follow. “It's time for you to meet the bees.”

“Bees?” Sherlock repeated, wondering what his father was going on about.

“Of course! Haven't you noticed the hives south of the old stone fence?”

Sherlock hadn't bothered to traipse all the way around the property and had no idea any such hives existed. Still, he trailed after his father, glad to have something to do.

“Take this,” Mr. Holmes grabbed a straw boater hat from a hook as they passed through the entryway and shoved it into Sherlock's hands, “and we'll find you a veil and some gloves out in the garden shed.”

Once they were in the shed, Mr. Holmes began gathering an assortment of supplies, including an odd metal can with a pointed snout and attached bellows.

“It's a smoker,” he said, noticing Sherlock looking at it oddly. “Smoke calms the bees.”

They walked toward the hives, passing the stone fence that was crumbling in spots, and entered a small clearing where six white wooden boxes with pitched roofs stood in a rough circle. A few bees droned around them in the sunlight.

“We’re going to open up the hives to see how the bees are faring,” Mr. Holmes explained.

Staying a respectful distance from the hives, Mr. Holmes showed Sherlock how to start a fire at the bottom of the smoker, using a handful of dry pine needles as kindling. He packed in wood chips and few sprigs of dried mint and lavender, using the bellows to keep the fire lit until a fragrant white smoke puffed up from the canister.

“You want a nice, billowy smoke,” Mr. Holmes said. “You don't want sparks flying out. That'll just make the bees angry.”

They draped the netting over their hats to cover their faces and pulled on long cowhide gloves. Mr. Holmes closed the lid and handed the smoker to Sherlock as they approached the first hive.

“Now, give the smoker a few good puffs near the hive. We’ll wait a bit, then I'll lift the cover up a crack, and you give it a few more puffs of smoke.”

Sherlock did as he was told, cautiously curious as Mr. Holmes carefully removed the cover of the hive.

“Always stand with your back to the sun. It shades the bees and gives you more light for checking the frames,” Mr. Holmes instructed.

Sherlock watched and listened attentively as his father demonstrated how to lift out, rotate, and inspect the frames, which looked like rectangular screens attached to wooden slats. Mr. Holmes spoke calmly, his movements gentle and fluid, being careful not to crush any bees. As the bees hummed and crawled around the hive, his father explained how he was checking the eggs, monitoring the food supply, and ensuring the queen was healthy.

“Do you ever get stung?” Sherlock asked, his eyes smarting from the smoke.

“Oh, now and then. But it's usually my fault. You need to take things nice and slow.”

As they progressed through the hives, they refilled the smoker several times. Mr. Holmes went on with details about drones and worker bees, pollen and nectar, mites and predators until Sherlock's head was buzzing like the honey bees they were tending.

“Who taught you how to do all of this?” Sherlock asked as his father carefully replaced the cover on the last hive.

“My father taught me when I was a boy. I went away to school and he stopped raising bees at some point.” They began walking back to the house at a leisurely pace. “I decided to start again just over a year ago. Read some books, consulted with some neighbors, and here we are. It all comes back to you.”

Sherlock peeled off the heavy gloves and rolled back the netting from his face. “I had no idea it was so intricate,” he said thoughtfully.

His father looked hopeful. “Think you'd like to keep helping out?”

“Yes, I think I would.”

“Good, good,” he clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “By the end of the summer we’ll have our own honey. The sweetness makes the smoke and stings worthwhile.”

 

******************

A few days later, Sherlock wheeled out his bicycle and set off for a ride. He had trimmed the lawn and helped with the bees again, but still felt restless.

The afternoon was warm and drowsy, as if the world had decided to take a nap. He biked slowly, noticing the flowers along the roadside and in people's gardens, thinking about bees and pollen.

He turned onto the road that led to John's house, trying not to admit to himself what he was doing. He would pass by, and if he happened to see John outside, he would say hello. Perfectly normal.

When the house came into view, Sherlock slowed even more. He scanned the front yard and was disappointed to find it empty. Making a sudden decision, he turned into the lane, coming to a stop by the garage.

He swung his leg over the bike and stood for a moment. The house seemed very quiet. Perhaps they were all out for the day. He looked at the front door, gauging if he had the courage to go up and knock on it.

But then he heard a noise, a rhythmic rasping sound that he soon identified as a hand saw cutting through wood. It was coming from the back of the house. Driven by a strange curiosity, he followed the sound, keeping close to the side of the house. Hidden by the branches of a large lilac bush, he peered into the back yard, catching his breath at an unexpected sight.

The curves of John's bare back flashed in the sunlight as he bent over a fallen tree, his foot braced on the trunk, the saw in his left hand. The loops of his braces hung down from his trousers, his shirt discarded over a nearby lawn chair.

The muscles in John's arm and shoulders flexed as he hewed through a thick limb, the sinewy ridge of his spine visible under his tanned skin. His body was solid, his wide shoulders tapering to trim hips that swayed with every deep thrust and pull of the saw.

Sherlock felt his pulse quicken. He had seen men’s bodies before, of course; life at boarding school and university made it unavoidable. But those were quick glances while dressing or in the shower room; anything longer would earn you an unsavory label, or worse.

He watched as John made the final cut, the limb falling to the ground with a satisfying thud. It looked like a small fruit tree, the trunk no larger than 10 inches in diameter. It had probably blown over in a storm the summer before, judging by how dry the wood was. John now straightened his back, wiping his brow with his forearm, taking a breather.

Sherlock saw the moment John’s muscles tensed and he turned around, knowing he was being watched, his eyes searching for the source of the gaze. Sherlock swore under his breath, then stepped into view, trying to seem nonchalant as he crossed the yard to where John stood.

“I see you're earning your keep.” Sherlock’s tone was more confident than he felt.

A smile spread across John's face. “Some of us have to.”

Sherlock couldn't help but let his gaze linger on John's chest for a moment, then he looked down at the tree, feigning interest. “Was it an apple tree?”

“Pear,” John answered, sliding his braces up over his shoulders. “How have you been?”

“Fine. Busy.” Seeing several piles of brush and stacks of logs, it was obvious that John had been busy as well. He decided he ought to provide more detail. “I’ve been learning about beekeeping. It’s my father’s hobby. Now he’s teaching me so I can help.”

“I’m not sure I like bees,” John mused.

“You like honey, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then you should like bees.”

The corner of John’s mouth lifted. “Still not sure I trust them.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Have you seen Molly?”

“No. I haven't really been out.”

“Me neither.” John looked at the overgrown yard as if calculating the weeks of work left. They fell silent, taking in the scraggly orchard, rangy bushes, and weeds that needing taming. “We should all go to the lake again.”

Sherlock glanced at John’s profile, his eyes drawn to the coarse hair on his chest that was gilded gold in the light, to his dark rosy nipples, down to his navel. Irrationally, he wanted to touch him, run the tips of his fingers over the planes of his torso, slip them under the waistband of his trousers.

Sherlock forced his eyes back up, meeting John’s. “We should.”

John’s expression had changed, serious now, his pupils dark, and Sherlock felt caught out, sure that John must know what he was thinking. Blood rushed to his cheeks.

John held his gaze, a tension rippling between them that made it hard to breathe. Sherlock was aware of John's eyes flicking down to his mouth, then back up.

“I could use a glass of water,” John said, his voice low. He glanced toward the house. “Want a drink?”

Sherlock hesitated, unsure.

“No one’s home,” John added, as if reading Sherlock's thoughts. “They're out visiting friends. They'll be gone for hours.”

A streak of panic shot through Sherlock's system. What, exactly, was John offering? Surely it wasn't -- oh, God -- he must be misinterpreting this -- and if it was -- Christ, what if -- no, it was just a glass of water -- and yet --

John was waiting for his answer.

“I --” Sherlock stammered. “I really should be getting home.” He found himself backing a few steps away, then forced himself to stop. He clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms to regain his composure.

He wasn't experienced in these matters; it was very likely he was leaping to baseless conclusions. His usual ability to read fine details was compromised, fogged by his own body's primal responses.

And if John truly was suggesting something more, he wasn't ready. Despite his urges, he had never kissed anyone, had never touched anyone intimately…

Sherlock took a breath, wishing he knew what to say to hide his naïveté and deftly salvage the situation. No words came out.

John, thankfully, spoke. “No worries. I should be getting back to work anyway.”

Sherlock nodded, then turned to leave, burning with confused humiliation. He was by the lilac bush when John called out to him.

“Sherlock --”

He turned back, unguarded.

John paused, crossed his arms awkwardly, shifting his eyes to the side as if he wasn't sure what else to say. “Thanks for coming by.”

Sherlock could only raise a hand in farewell, amazed that John seemed to be unsettled by the last few minutes as well.

That night, he lay sleepless in bed, aimlessly flipping through the pages of Shakespeare until a passage from Romeo and Juliet caught his eye, the words echoing pieces of something his father had said earlier in the day:

_“Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.”_


	6. Chapter 6

John rolled over in his bed, the first rays of the sun casting a soft glow in his room. He had slept poorly, another restless night spent replaying every encounter he'd had with Sherlock, wrestling with every word and glance.

Much as he tried, he could not stop thinking about Sherlock. He had buried himself in chores, tried to focus on studying, and then, days ago, Sherlock had appeared in the back yard, shattering any notion of self-control.

The conversation had started off neutral enough, but the way Sherlock had looked at him -- John was certain he'd seen a hunger in his eyes, an aroused flush in his cheeks -- sparked an answering lust in him.

And then, stupidly, he had startled Sherlock away like a rabbit. John covered his eyes with his arm, inwardly groaning. Why, why, _why_ had he come on so strong with that heavy-handed invitation to come into the house?

He should have approached Sherlock more delicately, slowly insinuated his attraction, telegraphed his willingness to do anything Sherlock wanted.

John flopped his arm to the side and stared at the ceiling, his eyes heavy with fatigue. Sherlock was frightened by his own desires, he could see that. He couldn't blame him; if two men were caught together in a compromising situation, the consequences would be severe. They could be jailed, their futures ruined.

John pushed the worst of his thoughts away. There were ways to be careful, ways to keep secrets hidden. If anything was going to come of this frustratingly palpable mutual attraction, he would have to be the one to set things in motion. He just couldn't be a bull in a china shop about it.

He listened to the clock ticking on the bedside table, reality intruding on his train of thought. It wasn’t as simple as he made it sound, any of it. It was unwise, potentially dangerous, and he knew it. Sherlock knew it. But he didn't know if he could stop himself.

He finally rolled out of bed and stumbled downstairs, lured by the smell of breakfast. He dove into the plate of sausages, poached eggs, and toast his mother had prepared. With the amount of physical labor he was doing, his appetite was relentless.

Mrs. Watson sat across from him, sipping a cup of tea. “Could you go into town today? We need some things.” She slid a sheet of paper across the table. “You can take the car.”

He glanced at the list, mostly groceries and refills of Aunt Helen’s medicine. “Sure. I’ll go later this afternoon.” He looked forward to getting away from the house, even if it meant driving his father’s old Model T. Hardly a sporty car compared to the nimble Vauxhall.

Mrs. Watson pulled another sheet of paper from her apron pocket and pushed it toward him. “Harry wrote. She has a job in London as a secretary.”

John let the letter from his sister remain on the table, untouched. “Good for her,” he said evenly.

Harriet was a few years older than him. When they were very young they had gotten along well, but as they grew older and their father’s drinking grew worse, their family splintered. Harry blamed their mother for doing nothing about the drinking and fought constantly with their father. John was stuck in the middle, too young to do anything but watch and ache for their family to be like it used to be.

Harry moved out when she turned 18, leaving John to care for his mother and despise his father more. They fell out of touch, seeing each other only at Christmases. The last time he saw her was two years ago. She looked unwell, thin and sallow. It didn’t take long to discover that she had turned to drinking, too.

John knew his mother wanted him to reach out to Harry, but he didn’t have the will. He had his own battles to fight; he couldn’t take on Harry’s, as well. He pushed back his chair, picked up his empty plate, and put it in the sink. He leaned down and gave his mother a quick peck on the cheek.

“I’ll be in the back yard if you need me.”

He spent a few hours clearing more brush from the orchard, returning inside for lunch and a quick shower and shave before heading out on the errands. He scrutinized his face in the steamy bathroom mirror and slicked his hair back, ran a hand over his jaw.

An image of Sherlock hovered at the edge of his mind, an urge to see him, confront him, taking hold. He wanted to know where they stood, what this current between them was made of. He stared into the mirror, knowing such a course would be unwise.

“Don't do it,” he warned his reflection. His eyes showed no sign of conviction.

He changed into clean clothes, grabbed the list off the table, and headed to the garage.

He backed the car down the lane, glancing at the house before putting the car into gear and driving toward Musgrave Hall.

 

****************

John followed the directions the young housemaid at the Hall had given him, hoping he was heading the right way. He felt self-conscious, wandering across the immense manicured lawn, into a formal rose garden, through a cutting garden filled with riotous colors, and on toward a copse of trees.

He kept his eyes open for a partially fallen stone fence among the trees, which would mean he was nearing the hives. The house and gardens had disappeared from sight by the time he spotted the fence, which he followed until he came to a clearing.

He first saw the white boxes stacked high, then the tall figure moving slowly among them. John slowed and stopped, watching from the shadows of the trees, fascinated. Sherlock was dressed in a white shirt and trousers, his hands and arms covered in long white gloves, his face obscured by fine netting draped over a hat.

A cloud of white smoke hung in the warm air as Sherlock carefully removed the cover of a hive. John watched as he gently lifted out a screen of some sort and examined it closely, then replaced it and lifted out the next. It was mesmerizing, his movements methodical yet graceful, his concentration unbroken by the occasional bee crawling over his hands or clinging to the netting so close to his face.

John realized he was seeing another facet of Sherlock -- he emanated a certainty and control that was genuine, nothing was forced, no arrogance or brittleness colored his actions. He was in his element here, submersed in his work, slightly removed and unreachable, just as he would be bent over a microscope or scribbling formulas into a notebook late at night.

Something shifted in John's perspective; a new admiration took root, a tenderness blooming, a feeling of wanting to protect Sherlock from the slings and arrows of the outside world. But something hot unfurled as well -- a desire to be pinned under that intense blue gaze, for those long fingers and shapely mouth to burn across his skin, an urge to mold Sherlock's lithe body against his own and witness the ecstasy of release shimmering across his face.

John began walking toward Sherlock, drawn like a magnet, disregarding his own inner cautions and an occasional bee that droned past him. Sherlock had just replaced the cover of the hive, the bees still lulled by the smoke, and looked up, surprise evident in his eyes even behind the veil.

“John?” Concern threaded through his voice. “Is everything alright?”

John stood in front of him, possessed by a singular objective. “No,” he answered, shaking his head slightly, “it's not quite right.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, his head snapping back in shock when John reached out to grasp the bottom edge of the netting gathered at his shoulders.

John held his gaze as he raised the veil, revealing Sherlock's neck, mouth, eyes. He lifted away the hat and netting, tossing them gently aside into the grass.

Sherlock’s eyes searched his face, and John paused, taking in the heady scent of smoke and sweetness of clover, the dewy beads of perspiration on Sherlock’s upper lip, the dampness of his hair, the hum of bees thrumming in the air.

He raised on his toes, his palms cupping Sherlock's jaw, drawing him closer, gently, slowly.

John closed his eyes, his lips meeting Sherlock's as softly as possible, a butterfly on a petal. He felt Sherlock inhale sharply and he shifted back slightly, allowing Sherlock to break away. But he stayed.

John found his mouth again, delivering a series of soft kisses, enough to taste the salt on Sherlock's skin, feel the warmth of his breath, lingering on the plushness of his lower lip.

God, he wanted more, but he held back, pulling gently away, hazy, his blood singing. He looked into Sherlock's eyes. “That's what I wanted to tell you.” John’s voice was raspy, unfamiliar to his own ears. “One of us had to say it.”

Sherlock was silent, his lips parted, color high on his cheeks.

Perhaps he’d been foolish to do this, to act on a whim, carried away by the sun and the smoke and the bees, but he had to take the chance. John glanced away, noticing the hat and netting in the grass. He bent down to retrieve them, handed them back to Sherlock.

“We can forget this ever happened. I swear I’ll stay away from you, if you tell me to go,” John said earnestly. He raised his eyes once more to Sherlock’s. “But I'd like to see you again… if that's what you want.”

Sherlock remained silent, his expression conflicted. Although John desperately wanted an answer, he knew he couldn't press the matter; he had just put the decision completely into Sherlock's hands.

He reluctantly turned and walked slowly toward the trees, retracing his steps all the way back to the house and his car, feeling numb. Sherlock had not said _stay_ , nor had he said _go._ He was still trapped in limbo.

 

******************

Sherlock stared at John's retreating back, still in a state of shock. He looked down at his hands gripping the hat, barely able to recognize what it was.

His world had been turned upside down in a matter of minutes, the kiss completely startling, unexpected. He touched his lips with his gloved hand, the roughness of the leather nothing like the velvety heat of John's mouth.

He hadn't known it would feel like that -- warm and soft and supple -- that every sense would be heightened, John smelling of soap, his hair still damp, the bees’ droning drowning out his racing heart. It stirred something in him, a longing to be kissed harder, to be touched in intimate places. He’d had a taste, and wanted more.

He pulled off the gloves in agitation, his forearms prickly with sweat.

“Dammit!” A searing pain shot up his right arm. There, in the folds of his sleeve, a honey bee struggled feebly before falling to the grass. He realized he'd moved too quickly when he tore off the gloves, pinching the bee in the crook of his arm.

He carefully rolled up his sleeve and eased out the stinger with his fingernail, cursing his carelessness under his breath. His father's words came back to him again: _You need to take things nice and slow._

Subdued, Sherlock looked to where John had disappeared into the trees. Perhaps he should apply his father's advice to other situations as well.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, sweet summer kisses... Thanks for sticking with this, lovely readers! Your support means a lot to me.
> 
> P.S. Here's where you can find me on Tumblr: <http://221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor.tumblr.com/>


	7. Chapter 7

“Dreadful. Just dreadful.” Mrs. Holmes clucked her tongue, turning the pages of the newspaper at the breakfast table.

Sherlock hunched over his plate, absently pushing around bits of egg with his fork. He wasn't hungry, still preoccupied with the afternoon among the hives. The lingering kiss had unfolded several days ago, and he not yet come to a decision about John. Temptation and prudence were tangling inside of him, a clash of want and caution. It was exhausting.

He glanced irritably at the newspaper, wondering what his mother was fussing about. The bold headline on the front page couldn't be missed:

HIKER FOUND DEAD  
_Police reveal few details_

He peered closer, about to read more when Mrs. Holmes abruptly folded the paper and tucked it under her plate.

“I'd like you to help with some correspondence this morning. I need to send out a few replies.”

“Spiffing,” Sherlock mumbled.

Mrs. Holmes narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you feeling well? You've been moping around for days.”

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just a bit tired.” He fervently wished his father would come down for breakfast to help distract his mother.

“You need more protein. Eat your bacon.”

“Mother --”

“And could you possibly sit up straight in your chair? At this rate, you'll have a hunched back by the time you're 25.”

He was spared further criticism when Elizabeth entered the breakfast room. “Pardon me, ma’am, but Mrs. Turner would like to consult with you about this evening’s dinner.”

“Right now?” Mrs. Holmes sighed, then picked up her tea cup and followed Elizabeth to the kitchen, pontificating about terrines and pâtés.

Sherlock slid the newspaper from under his mother's plate and quickly scanned the article for the facts: a male hiker in his 30s had been found dead in a meadow about three miles outside the village yesterday morning. A farmer had come across the body and summoned the local police. The name of the victim had not yet been released, pending positive identification and notification of next of kin. The police were not ruling out foul play, according to Police Constable Ian Dimmock.

Sherlock gnawed on the last sentence, intrigued. Who would want to murder a hiker, and if they had, how was it done? If he died of natural causes, why would the police find it suspicious?

He read the article again, mentally mapping the area where the body was found. Just then, Elizabeth returned.

“There’s a telephone call for you, sir.”

Sherlock looked up, momentarily confused. “Are you sure it’s not for my father?

“Yes, sir. They asked specifically for you. You can take it in the library.”

A flash of foolish hope shot through Sherlock’s chest. Maybe it was John. He stood up and nodded to Elizabeth. “Thank you.”

He walked to the library and closed the door, composing himself before lifting the receiver. “This is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock, this is Molly. Guess what?”

Sherlock tried to cover his disappointment. “I haven't the faintest idea.”

“I've got some exciting news. Have you seen the paper?” Her enthusiasm carried through the line.

“Just the front page. Why?”

“The you-know-what is here.”

He drew a blank. “The what?”

“You know -- from the paper. He's _here_ ,” she whispered loudly.

Sherlock was about to tell her she was making no sense when the headline flashed in front of his eyes. Of course -- the dead hiker. The body must be at the funeral home since the local police had no morgue.

“There’s something strange,” Molly continued. “Oh, I'm dying to tell you about it. But not over the telephone. Can you meet me here tonight?”

Now he truly was interested. “What time?”

“Can you come at eight?”

“Yes, that should work.”

“Oh, good. It may be nothing, but I’d really like to see what you and John think.”

Sherlock's heart jumped once again. “John?”

“Yeah, since he's practically a doctor, I thought he'd be helpful.” The line was muffled for a moment, then Molly's voice came through clear again. “I have to go. See you tonight.”

She quickly hung up, and Sherlock was left wondering what the mystery was all about -- and what he was going to say to John when he saw him.

 

****************

The day passed with painful slowness, Sherlock's mind spinning between Molly’s mysterious phone call and the thought of seeing John again, the tension putting him in a dangerously restless mood.

Standing before the wardrobe mirror that evening, he pulled on a navy blue jacket and striped blue tie in preparation for dinner. He adjusted his shirt collar and tugged at the sleeves, feeling like he might snap.

He pushed his hair back with one hand, trying to settle an errant curl. He just needed to get through the next hour, then he'd be free to meet Molly and John.

When his parents finally retired to the sitting room after dinner to listen to the wireless, Sherlock took the opportunity to slip outside to the garage. He hadn't asked permission to borrow the car, but he didn't want to interrupt their radio program, therefore it would just be more considerate to simply leave, he reasoned.

He shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie, stripping it roughly from his neck, throwing them in a bundle into the back seat. Undoing the top button of his shirt, he started the car, his nerves jangling with excitement. The night ahead was full of unknowns, and he was ready to be swept along wherever they took him.

Sherlock parked the car a short distance from the funeral home and walked around to the back door where he had dropped off Molly before. He knocked cautiously, relieved when Molly answered the door.

“Come in,” she said, practically pulling him into the kitchen by the arm. She looked nervous, as if she was having second thoughts. “My parents are out,” she explained. “They’d kill me if they knew I was doing this.”

Sherlock looked around the large kitchen. He had been in the house for one or two visitations in the past, and knew that the top floor of the home was the family’s living quarters, while the ground floor and basement were devoted to the funeral business.

“Follow me.” Molly led the way down a hallway to a set of stairs. They passed a service elevator along the way -- it was more than big enough for a coffin, Sherlock noted.

The basement was a large, well-lit space with smooth cement floors and sterile white walls. Two metal tables -- one covered with a sheet -- were placed in the center, along with a floor drain. Tall cabinets, counters, and deep sinks lined several of the walls. Sherlock was impressed with the modern, lab-like quality of the mortuary.

He finally noticed John sitting on a high metal stool in the corner. Their eyes locked, an unspoken current passing between them.

“Well, I might as well explain all this,” Molly announced.

Sherlock shifted his gaze to where Molly was standing by the sheet-covered table, a human form evident beneath the cloth. John slid from the stool and joined them, standing next to Molly.

“The police were here early this morning -- three of them,” she started, “I overheard them talking. They’re completely baffled.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked.

“They think it was murder -- but they don’t have any suspects. Or motives. Or even know what the weapon was.”

“Not exactly Scotland Yard’s finest,” John commented dryly.

“So how was the hiker killed?” Sherlock asked.

“Here -- look for yourselves.” She gripped the corner of the sheet, then hesitated. “You’re prepared to see this, right?”

They both nodded grimly, and Molly pulled back the sheet to expose the head and chest of the hiker. He was naked, the skin waxy, a blueish tinge to the lips, the head angled to the side. The eyelids, thankfully, had been closed.

“There was a blow to the back of the head -- right there.” She pointed, and Sherlock peered closer. A deep gash about three inches long matted with hair and blood was evident in the skull.

“It's too bad. He looked like a nice fellow,” Molly said contemplatively. “What’s odd is, the police can’t find a second set of footprints anywhere in the area, apart from those of the farmer who found him.”

“And they ruled out the farmer as a suspect?” John asked.

“Mr. Callaghan?” Molly scoffed. “He's 85. I don't think he’s likely to take a swing at a young chap like this.”

“And they’re certain the hiker didn’t have a bad heart and collapse, hitting his head on a rock?” Sherlock suggested.

“Well, look at the angle and clean lines of the wound,” Molly pointed out. “That was caused by a straight edge, not an uneven rock.”

John bent to inspect the gash more closely.

“An axe, maybe?” Sherlock offered. “Or a shovel?”

“Those would leave a deeper wound,” John said. “I think it was something smaller, lighter. Whatever it was must have killed him instantly.”

Sherlock walked around the table, viewing the body from all angles. The man had been fit and tanned despite his current pallor, clearly an enthusiast of outdoor exercise. “Have they identified him?”

“Yes, he was staying at an inn near here for a short holiday,” Molly confirmed.

“Alone?”

“Yes, that’s what I heard.” Molly answered. “And nothing was taken, apparently -- he still had his money and watch and all that when they brought him in. Strange, isn’t it? It's like a ghost came up and bashed his head in for no good reason.”

“There’s always a reason,” Sherlock added darkly.

They all exchanged glances.

“Are his possessions still here?” Sherlock asked.

“Just his clothes. Ian -- I mean, Constable Dimmock, took the rest.” Molly blushed and quickly walked over to a cupboard.

Sherlock exchanged a surprised glance with John.

“Molly Hooper, did you chat up an officer of the law for information?” John asked in mock accusation.

“No! I just brought him a cup of tea because he looked a bit peaky. This is his first year on the job, you know. He's never seen a dead body before, so I think he just needed to talk a bit.” She lifted down a cardboard box, then placed it on the second table. “I'm just good at listening, I guess.”

“Excellent work,” Sherlock praised her offhandedly. He removed the lid of the box and sorted through a plaid shirt, lightweight jumper, and trousers. Nothing was left in the pockets. He pulled out a long grey scarf, running the soft wool through his fingers. A smile slowly curved up one corner of his mouth.

“What?” John asked, seeing the change in his expression. “What are you smiling about?”

Sherlock dropped the scarf back into the box and replaced the lid. “Just a theory,” he answered vaguely.

A series of dots was rapidly connecting in his mind, a swirl of possible scenarios drowning out any thoughts about John. At the moment, his attention was focused solely on the puzzle of the hiker.

He considered the next step. It was a little after eight o’clock; there was still some daylight left, but not for long.

He turned to Molly, who was carefully pulling the sheet back over the body. “Do you have a torch we could borrow?”

“I think so. Why?”

He looked at them both. “Let’s go visit the scene of the crime.”

 

*****************

John had watched Sherlock's face as he examined the box of clothing, quickly calculating details. He saw the gradual smile, then the sinking into deep thought. It was that look he had witnessed at the hives -- the keen concentration, the mental detachment.

When Sherlock resurfaced, there was a wicked gleam in his eye, followed by the rather alarming suggestion that they pay a visit to where the body had been found.

Molly looked excited, then crestfallen. “I'd love to, but I can't. My parents will be back soon.”

Sherlock was now gazing intently at him. “Want to come?”

John felt a shiver at the base of his spine. He wanted to live dangerously, didn't he? Visiting a murder scene at night with a man he desperately wanted to kiss again certainly qualified as reckless. In fact, it was mad. He looked back at Sherlock. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”


	8. Chapter 8

The sun was low on the horizon as they tramped through the grassy meadow. They had exchanged few words during the drive into the countryside, Sherlock seeming preoccupied with whatever strange details filled his brain.

John had stolen a few glances at him, trying to get a sense of where they stood after several days of silence. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, but Sherlock had not told him to go, or that he did not wish to see him. Maybe Sherlock had chosen to pretend the kiss had never happened and just didn't want to discuss it. Despite the strange circumstances, at least they now had a few moments alone together.

They walked parallel to a stream that meandered across the fields of Farmer Callaghan’s property. John followed Sherlock, trusting that he knew where he was going. He also sincerely hoped that old Callaghan didn't shoot at trespassers.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock answered simply.

“What exactly should I be doing?”

“Look for trampled grass, a big flattened spot where the police were milling around the body.”

In another ten minutes, they spied a well-trodden area near the stream. Exchanging a look, they agreed that must be where the hiker had been discovered. As they slowly approached, an uneasy heaviness filled John’s stomach. Death carried a weight to it, especially a sudden and violent one like the hiker had experienced.

John watched as Sherlock circled the area, his eyes sweeping side to side, walking forward a few steps, then backwards, glancing up at the sky occasionally in some elaborate dance. It made no sense to John, but it was fascinating to watch Sherlock hold out a hand, pace back, glance over his shoulder, and take several more steps back.

Finally, John had to ask. “What are you doing?”

“Calculating. Be quiet.”

John sighed and shifted the torch he was carrying into his other hand. They would need it soon, a dark blue hue spreading over the hills as the sun descended. Words he hadn’t thought of in ages came to mind. _Crepuscule. Gloaming._

John stared at the grass, wondering if the dark patch he was looking at was dried blood. Compelled by a morbid curiosity, he crouched down and touched the stain. He turned over his fingertips -- dry. He lifted them to his nose -- no scent. Maybe it was nothing.

He looked up again when Sherlock called his name. He had moved a dozen yards downstream and was standing along the bank, gazing at something by his feet.

John rose and walked over to Sherlock, glancing down to where he was looking. John did a double-take. “Is that a --”

“Yes.”

“My God.” John stared, comprehension gradually dawning. The unmistakable curve of a wooden boomerang lay partially submerged in shallow mud, water trickling gently over its surface. John had only seen them in illustrations and was stunned to be looking at one in the stream.

“That’s what caused it -- the blow to the head,” John said, noticing how the edge of the boomerang neatly fit the pattern of the injury.

“Yes.”

“So -- “ John hesitated, not sure he should leap to wild conclusions. “That explains why there were no other footprints. It was an accident.”

“Bad luck, isn’t it?” Sherlock replied. He put out his palms, framing the scenario in the open field. “Our hiker takes the boomerang out to give it a few good throws, then he’s distracted, turns his head just at the wrong moment, and crack -- it flies off his skull, lands in the stream where it's carried away by the current, and down he goes. Instantly dead.”

John vividly pictured the scene, cringing at the moment the hiker made the fatal mistake of glancing away, the whirling object striking his head. “I wonder what he turned to look at.”

“Who knows? A bird startled from its cover, a car backfiring on the road, someone riding by on a bicycle…"

“And where on earth did he get a boomerang?”

“Same place that the wool scarf in the box came from. It was merino wool. I’ll wager he recently returned from a trip to Australia.”

John lifted his eyes to Sherlock, amazed. “Just by looking at that scarf, you knew to search for a boomerang, didn't you? That's why you were smiling back at Molly's.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was a logical assumption. Australian merino wool is quite distinct.” Sherlock paused. “But so was the label that said ‘Knitted in Melbourne.’”

John let out a laugh, shaking his head. “Remarkable.” He looked at Sherlock again, surprised and impressed with his observational skills. Sherlock was grinning at him, his hands in his pockets. John smiled back, the warmth stirring in his belly tempered by the grim discovery in the stream.

John glanced down at the boomerang. “What should we do with it?”

“Can't risk it getting washed away. We'll take it back with us.” Sherlock started to bend down to retrieve the wooden weapon.

“But wait -- how do we explain what we were doing here?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “We’ll give it to Constable Dimmock. No need to mention Molly or going to the funeral home. I'll figure out what to say. Just follow my lead.”

John watched as Sherlock picked up the boomerang, holding it carefully by one end. He was in this far, he might as well see it through to the finish.

“The hiker’s family will be relieved to know what really happened,” John said as they began walking back to Sherlock’s car.

“Do you think so? Is self-inflicted accidental death by boomerang better than murder?”

“I suppose it is,” John laughed again, feeling a little guilty. “But not by much.”

John switched on the torch, lighting their way in the encroaching dark. As they walked side-by-side, John felt invigorated, his senses heightened. They had just bested the police at solving a mystery.

 

***********************

It was well after ten by the time they visited Dimmock off-duty at his small house in the village, presented the boomerang, and spun their story for him.

Dimmock was close to their age, John noticed, with a boyish face that wouldn't serve him well in his profession. He was the type to cover what he didn't know with brash authority. Sherlock apparently had honed in on this too, and was putting on a little drama that had John trying not to smirk.

“I don't want to get mixed up in all this,” Sherlock proclaimed, wringing his hands nervously. “We shouldn't have gone out there. I probably shouldn't have touched it, but I didn't know what to do.”

“You did the right thing coming here,” Dimmock said reassuringly, swayed by their tale. “I'll take care of it.”

“Just don't mention us, will you?” Sherlock begged. “My family would be simply appalled to find out I was anywhere near this business.”

“Well, you two shouldn't have been tramping around out there,” Dimmock admonished them gravely. “But I'll overlook that, and just say I found the weapon, shall I? I think that solves everyone's problems.”

John caught the sly smile Sherlock threw his way and had to cover his mouth, pretending to look chastised.

Dimmock gazed at the smooth wood of the boomerang he held in his hands, looking positively delighted at the thought of cracking his first big case as an officer. “I hope to be Detective Inspector someday,” Dimmock admitted. “This will be my start.”

“Best of luck,” Sherlock replied, prompting John to shoot him a warning glance.

Once safely outside, John turned to Sherlock, pushing him playfully on the shoulder. “What was that in there? You never told me you were an actor.”

Sherlock grinned. “People love to have all the answers. I just led him to the ones we needed.”

“Dimmock will get all the credit, you know, even though you figured it out,” John warned.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I don't want any credit. It was just for my own satisfaction. Let Dimmock have this. Maybe he’ll get a promotion.”

John looked at Sherlock in wonder, trying to imagine what other surprises he was hiding.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together with pent up energy. “I'm not tired. Are you tired?”

John shook his head. “No. I'm wide awake.” John didn't want the evening to end, and he felt Sherlock didn't want it to, either. Where could they go?What was there to do in a small village after disproving a murder? He offered an idea, suggesting one of the few places he was familiar with. “We could go to the lake.”

Sherlock hesitated, and John was about to propose something else when Sherlock agreed. “Let’s go.”

They quickly picked up John's bicycle outside of Molly's house and loaded it in the back seat, then drove toward the lake, falling into silence again.

John glanced at Sherlock, looking at his shadowed profile. He had the sudden urge to reach over and put his hand on his thigh, lean his mouth into that long neck. He looked away, trying not to tempt himself with thoughts that might not come true.

Needing something to do with his hands, John pulled the flask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the top, and took a pull, then offered it to Sherlock. Sherlock followed suit, grimacing a bit as he swallowed the burning whiskey.

Sherlock parked the Vauxhall near a stand of trees, the quiet somehow seeming loud after the growl of the engine. They looked out at the horizon, a three-quarters moon rising above the lake, silver light rippling across the water’s surface. They passed the flask between them two more times.

“Should we go down to the dock?” John finally suggested, his limbs warm from the liquor and wanting to move.

They walked slowly over the dewy grass, their footsteps hollow on the wooden planks of the dock. They pried off their damp shoes and socks, rolled up their trouser legs, and sat beside each other, letting their feet skim into the cool water.

John could sense Sherlock's arm next to his, their legs almost touching. He could think of nothing to say, his skin aching to make contact with Sherlock's. He held back, waiting for a cue, a sign that he should turn his face, move his hands.

Their legs brushed, and John held his breath. Sherlock lowered his head a fraction, sharing a flicker of a glance. John waited, his pulse loud in his ears, his gaze drifting to Sherlock's lips, wanting them to come closer. He would wait, he would wait… and he was rewarded.

Sherlock's mouth was warm, a soft fumble laced with whiskey. John tilted his head, welcoming the second inexpert kiss, and the next, and the next.

John slid his fingers along Sherlock's neck, up into his hair, tugging him closer, slowing Sherlock, guiding him, their knees bumping as they turned more fully into each other. The wooden dock was hard and uncomfortable, but John barely noticed, lost in the thrill of lips seeking and shaping, a hitch of breath, a slight sigh.

Sherlock claimed he didn't socialize, that he disdained romantic entanglements, but Sherlock's body hummed under John's fingers like a live wire as they kissed.

John finally pulled back to look into Sherlock's eyes. “Are you sure… you're certain this is what you want?”

Sherlock nodded, his expression serious. “I’m sure… but I have to tell you -- I've never done this before.”

“Has there really been no one else?” John asked, sincerely surprised. “Not even a kiss?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Only you.”

John smiled softly, running his thumb gently over Sherlock's bottom lip, falling into his eyes. “Then I'm very lucky.”

John leaned in again, finding Sherlock's mouth. Water lapped the shore, Sherlock's hand curling around the nape of John's neck, the tips of their tongues grazing, slipping deeper.

They drank each other in, transported by the moonlight and night songs of the crickets, the rich smells of water and earth enveloping them.

John forgot the hiker, the village, his aunt, the army in the autumn, wholly consumed by the fullness of Sherlock's lips on his own, breathless with the new discovery of it all, wanting to stay endlessly suspended in the sweet night air.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so my ability to maintain slow burn with these two is pretty much nil. The sultry summer is too much! I give up trying to hold them back and will let them do what they so badly want to do. 
> 
> Also, tip of the straw boater hat to saturn_in_retrograde for beta reading.
> 
> More to come next week!


	9. Chapter 9

“I knew there was something odd,” Molly eyes were bright, her hands clasped in excitement, “but I would never have imagined a boomerang.”

Sherlock glanced disapprovingly at Molly’s elbows resting on the bonnet of the Vauxhall that he was diligently polishing, hoping to erase any sign of the car’s unapproved departure the evening before. So far, his parents had said nothing about it or his late return.

Molly lifted her elbows off the car, unperturbed. She had stopped by Musgrave Hall that morning, dying of curiosity to know what he and John had found out at the crime scene. Sherlock had told her about the discovery in the stream and turning the boomerang over to Dimmock with the promise of remaining anonymous.

“I thought it best to leave all of us out of it,” Sherlock added. “It'd be a bit difficult to explain why we were at the funeral home examining the body.”

“Yes, you're right,” Molly agreed. “That wouldn't go over very well, I imagine.”

Sherlock wiped dust from the fender. “Maybe you should join the police. You did more work than Dimmock.”

“Maybe you should be a detective, if you're so clever,” she shot back.

Sherlock smirked, knowing he'd needled her about Dimmock.

“Oh, stop it. I think he’s nice.” She smoothed her hair, flustered. “What’d you do to your neck, anyway?”

Sherlock quickly covered the purple mark with his shirt collar, trying not to blush. “Just a silly accident,” he lied. “Tripped into… something.” John's hot mouth, sucking and gently biting the tender skin above his collarbone, to be accurate.

Last night had been an education in kissing, a long and thorough lesson in snogging. His mind drifted back to the dock, his hand that held the polishing rag coming to a stop on the fender.

There had been soft kisses and hard kisses, dry brushes of lips and wet probes of tongue, licks and laps and nuzzles and bites, fingers tugging and stroking and circling… a universe of sensations. And he had started it all with a simple lean forward and a hungry curiosity, unable to resist a second taste of John's mouth.

Prior to meeting John, such intimacy was not something he ever thought he'd enjoy, not a pastime he ever wasted a moment thinking about, but John had turned all of that on its head. There was an inexplicable chemistry between them that sent up sparks like a summer bonfire, burning away caution and reason.

They barely knew each other, but the whiskey and shimmering water had gone to his head, making him want to kiss John, however clumsily at first, to be tutored in this ageless and intimate new language. It had been intoxicating.

When Sherlock finally surfaced back to the present, Molly was talking about the story that would be in all the papers. “What do you think the headline will say? ‘Man Bashed by Boomerang’?”

Sherlock smiled to himself, enjoying Molly’s rambling as he finished wiping down the car, still thinking about John. The summer, he decided, was opening up a number of intriguing possibilities.

 

*****************

Once the newspaper published the story, the village buzzed with gossip about the hiker and the boomerang, with Constable Dimmock portrayed as the clever hero who managed to crack the bizarre case. Even his parents talked about it at the dinner table, causing Sherlock to try not to sigh in exasperation as they praised the ingenuity of the young policeman.

Mr. Holmes finally changed the subject when he turned to Sherlock.

“We’ve had a spot of our own bad news, I’m afraid. A telegram arrived from Thomas this afternoon. Seems he’s gone and broken a leg. He’s staying on at his daughter’s to recuperate.” Mr. Holmes looked pointedly at Sherlock. “We’ll need your help outside with the grounds more than ever.”

Sherlock quickly calculated the pros and cons of the situation. He’d get out of his mother’s stuffy study more often and away from the house. On the other hand, it meant more hard work. An image of John’s bare muscled back lingered in his mind. Maybe the additional physical labor would be worth it…

“Of course,” Sherlock said amenably.

His parents beamed at him.

“Someone’s turning over a new leaf,” Mrs. Holmes commented approvingly, spearing a boiled potato sprinkled with butter and parsley.

Sherlock smiled wanly, choosing not to reply, wondering how soon he could see John again. They had parted without plans, the night too full of surprises to think ahead.

Perhaps he would ride his bike by John's house tomorrow evening. He didn't want to appear too eager, but he didn't want to seem like he was avoiding him, either. How on earth did people manage these things?

Besides, it was probably wise to have a little time to mull over what had transpired. They really ought to take the time to get to know each other better. Isn't that what people always said?

He looked at his parents, contemplating how they had met and courted. He knew the worn-out story about them meeting at university, his father dazzled by his mother’s brains and beauty, his mother charmed by the handsome and doting young suitor. They had married just a year later. In some ways, Sherlock envied the ease of their relationship.

After dinner, Sherlock strolled outside to the glasshouse where he knew he couldn't be seen from the main house. He sat with his back against the exterior wall that faced toward the hives and dug the last cigarette from his case. He lit it, noting he now had a good excuse to go into town tomorrow to buy more. He watched the smoke curl up from the end, his thoughts slowly dissipating.

A phrase of music wended through his mind, a sonata by Brahms he had learned years ago. His mother had made him take violin lessons as a boy, while Mycroft was pushed into learning piano. Every Christmas they were forced to perform a duet when Uncle Rudy came to visit.

Sherlock could almost think back fondly on those memories now, but at the time the command performances in starched shirts and too-tight shoes were excruciating. Still, he had developed a love for music, something he had let fade since he had gone to university.

He had the sudden urge to find his violin and tune it up, to cradle his chin against its body and run his fingers over the strings, music resonating through his bones.

He crushed out the cigarette and stood up, dusted off his trousers, then set off for the house in search of his violin.

 

********************

Strains of Mozart threaded through Sherlock's head the next afternoon as he spread a thick layer of mulch in a flower bed. After a long search last night, he’d finally found his violin tucked away in a closet along with numerous folders of sheet music.

Back in his room, he'd spent several hours reacquainting himself with the instrument. It had been more than a year since he'd last played, and he was painfully rusty. Even reading music -- a skill that used to come easily -- took effort. He vowed to practice more often over the summer, and to bring his violin back to uni with him.

He finished the flower bed and peeled off his gardening gloves just as his father walked up to him.

“Lovely job,” his father said, nodding toward the flowers. “I think we’re done for the day, don’t you?”

Sherlock heartily agreed, wanted nothing more than to ride into town for cigarettes and a chance to see John. After a quick cleanup and change of clothes, Sherlock retrieved his bicycle and set off down the road.

Nearing John's house, he was pleased to see John in the front yard. He was crouched down, repairing a section of the wooden fence. John stood up when he caught sight of Sherlock, a hammer hanging loosely in his hand, waiting for him to come to a stop.

Smiles played on their lips, the fence a barrier between them, the possibility of eyes on them restraining their exchange.

“Hi.” Sherlock had nothing more original to say, but it was all that was needed. He could feel John’s gaze lingering on his open shirt collar that covered the mark on his throat.

“Hi.” John’s voice was low and soft as he smiled in return. “I’ve been watching the road, in case you came by.”

“This is the first time I could get away. I've been pressed into even more service. Our gardener’s laid up with a broken leg and won't be back for weeks.”

John raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And you're the replacement? Why not just hire someone else?”

“I believe it's my parents’ idea to keep me occupied. Idle hands, devil’s work, all that.”

The corner of John's mouth quirked up suggestively. “Quite right… just think of the things those hands might get up to.”

Sherlock felt a warmth rise along his neck. He glanced at the fence, which appeared to have three or four more loose sections to be hammered into place. The twitch of a curtain caught his eye and he looked up at the house, catching a glimpse of a pale face in the window. He had best move along.

“I have a few errands to run. When you're finished, meet me at the pub -- the Feather and Thorn. It’s the one on the corner by the bookshop. I’ll buy you a pint.”

John smiled. “I'll be there.”

Sherlock rode off, stopping first at the tobacco shop, then unable to resist a quick look at the bookstore. He thumbed through a number of titles -- Joyce’s _Ulysses_ , a stack of Agatha Christie mysteries, T.S. Eliot’s _The Waste Land, Tales of the Jazz Age_ by Fitzgerald. He picked up another Fitzgerald book, _This Side of Paradise._ He leafed it open, reading a few passages. One line caught his eye, and his imagination.

_“I don't want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again.”_

He thought of the lake and John’s fervent lips against his neck, stirring a depth of desire he didn’t know he possessed, the way John had reluctantly pulled away, his husky words, _I think we should stop._

There could have been more. They could have gone on. But John had been sensible, slowing their urgency. They had time. They had the summer ahead of them.

The pleasure of losing innocence…

He knew the primal responses of his own body, of course. He was familiar with the furtive quelling of erotic midnight dreams and involuntary morning stiffness, his cock hard in his hand, the motions predictable, unimaginative, a cure for a inconvenient condition.

But the thought of John's hand curling around him, John's mouth on his skin, their bodies entwined -- his touches unknown, unexpected -- was immensely arousing. A vivid heat unfurled in his belly and he could feel his prick hardening. Mortified, he pressed himself against the edge of the table piled high with books, biting his lip in a bid for self-control.

He pretended to read several pages of a book, the words a blur as he recited the periodic table of elements in his head, mathematical formulas, anything dry and logical to distract and redirect his thoughts away from sex.

When he finally felt it was safe to move again, he quickly purchased a copy of _This Side of Paradise._ He slipped the slim novel into his pocket, then went to the pub to wait, a heady anticipation lighting in his chest.

Nursing a pint, he read the first few chapters tucked at a table in a back corner. When a shadow fell across the page he looked up, John’s blue eyes warm in greeting.

“I’ll have that pint now, if you don't mind.”

Sherlock smiled back, feeling foolish for the bookstore incident, eager to sit across from John, excited for the next few hours together.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

_Beautiful art by[khorazir.](https://khorazir.tumblr.com/) Shared with permission._

 

They talked at length, the conversation easy, ranging from childhoods and school days to politics and professors, parents and estranged siblings.

By the third pint they'd grown more introspective, the silences longer but comfortable. The pub had filled up with patrons and was loud with raucous laughter and a hubbub of voices, making it more difficult to talk.

Sherlock felt John's knee press against his own and he didn't move, relishing the contact. They exchanged a long look, agreeing it was time to leave.

Walking toward the door, Sherlock felt lightheaded, almost giddy with anticipation for whatever was next. He led the way as they walked their bikes through town, away from their houses.

“Where are we going?” John asked when they reached the edge of the village.

Sherlock mounted his bicycle. “Anywhere.”

They rode, starting out slowly, then increasing in speed, laughing as they tried to race, weaving precariously close to each other. When their legs tired, they slowed again, breathing hard, the village far behind them.

Sherlock veered his bike onto a small dirt path that split off from the main road. He didn't know where it led, but in the distance he could see an abandoned stone barn and stand of tall trees. He headed toward the trees, coming to a stop in a glade of long grass dappled in shade.

John stopped close beside him. Sherlock's legs felt weak, his breath still ragged when John cupped the nape of his neck and pulled him to his mouth. Straddling their bikes, they kissed, finally alone and away from prying eyes, wrapped in a dizzy tang of beer and warm, salty skin.

They finally disentangled themselves from the frames, letting the bikes drop to the ground. Sherlock lowered himself to the soft grass, drawing John down by the wrist to lay next to him. They stared up at the evening sky through the tree branches, hidden by a knee-high wall of gently rustling grass.

“I keep thinking about the hiker,” John said quietly. “Such bad luck. He went out to a field like this on a perfectly fine day… only he never came back.”

“Lots of people never come back.” Sherlock kept his eyes on a bird circling above them, suddenly feeling philosophical. “The war, the Spanish flu -- do you ever wonder why we survived when so many others didn't?”

John turned his head to look at him. “I don't know. I don't think there is an answer to that.”

They gazed at each other silently. John lifted his hand, running a finger along the curve of Sherlock's cheek.

“Or maybe,” John offered after a moment, “it just means we shouldn't waste the time we do have.”

Sherlock closed his eyes when John kissed him again, his hands automatically sliding up his back when John rolled onto one hip to better angle their mouths.

He kissed John back eagerly, his knee bending up as he turned into John's embrace. John's fingers laid lightly against his throat, his tongue slipping past his lips. The earth seemed to pulse with life above and below and around them, a deep vibration that Sherlock swore he could feel in his blood.

Sherlock was hazily aware of John's fingers trailing down his neck, coming to a rest on the top button of his shirt. God, he wanted him to slip it through its hole, to undo them all and skim his hands down his chest.

The thought of John’s touch made him groan, his head tilting back, exposing more of his neck. John kissed him under his jaw, down his throat, hovering over the love bite from the first night. His fingers teased at the pearly button.

“Yes or no?” John murmured.

“Yes…”

Sherlock felt the curve of John's smile in the next kiss as he worked open the button with nimble fingers. He was pleasantly jolted by the heat of John's lips pressing against the exposed triangle of skin on his chest.

John slowly released each button one by one, pausing each time to bestow a blessing of his mouth on the newly bared skin between the open plackets of his shirt. Sherlock squirmed with pleasure, his nerves singing with exquisite sensitivity under John's breath and lips.

When John undid the button just below his navel, Sherlock gasped, the muscles of his abdomen flexing involuntarily as John kissed a trail down his stomach, darting his tongue into the hollow of his navel.

John's palm, rough and warm, slid beneath the fabric of his shirt. Fingerpads brushed over his right nipple, bringing it to a hard nub.

“Oh God,” Sherlock breathed out in surprise as John's mouth grazed low along his waistband, causing his cock to strain in his trousers.

This was what he had craved -- the unpredictable -- and now it was happening. He tensed, suddenly unsure how much further he wanted things to go.

John slowed, clearly aware of Sherlock's aroused state, and looked up. Sherlock vacillated between wanting John to continue his attentions and wanting him to stop.

John must have seen the hesitation in his face. He withdrew his hand from under his shirt and lightly kissed his way back up to Sherlock's lips, then eased onto his back to lie beside him in the grass.

Sherlock stared at the sky, flooded with uncertainty, wrestling with every ounce of his inexperience. He didn't want to appear foolish or prudish -- but he simply wasn't sure what he wanted, much less what he was supposed to do. When John's head was lingering above his waistband, should he have touched him? And where -- his shoulders, his hair? How should he position his legs? And what about the next part -- who should undo the trouser buttons? What did one do with braces? And managing the drawers -- ?

And if John were to take him in his mouth -- what would it feel like? Was he to supposed to move? What if he climaxed too soon? It was one hellish conundrum after another.

“Hey.”

John's voice and hand on his shoulder freed him from his spiraling thoughts.

John pushed himself up onto one elbow to gaze down at him. He took Sherlock's hand in his and guided it to his own chest, placing Sherlock’s fingertips over the top button of his shirt.

Sherlock blinked, realizing he'd been so focused on himself that he’d forgotten to think of John. Here was an offer to shift the balance, trade places, as it were. John was giving him permission to unbutton and explore his body this time, going as far as he was comfortable.

He didn’t know the next time they could be together like this; now was the chance to learn and experiment. He'd be a fool to let this opportunity go.

Gathering the shreds of his confidence, Sherlock shifted to his side as John relaxed down into the grass. He bent low and found John's mouth, his fingers venturing to John's top button. His technique wasn't as sure as John's -- he'd never undressed anyone before -- but he managed to fumble open the first two buttons of John’s shirt.

Taking a breath for courage, he skimmed his mouth lower to the base of John's throat. Oh, how wonderful it was to taste John's skin, to nuzzle in the curves and hollows of his collarbone, to glide his fingers over the coarse hair on his chest.

He worked open another button, and another, and another. He pushed aside John's shirt to gently probe a pink nipple with his tongue. It hardened to a pebble, surprising him with its firmness. He experimentally rolled his tongue around the areola, pleased with the way his actions made John arch his back and catch his breath.

Sherlock moved to the other nipple, lapping it to a tight bud. John’s fingers wended into his hair as Sherlock moved his mouth down his torso.

John’s ribs -- the ridges and curves as they sloped to his waist; the planes of his stomach, the taut skin, the dip of his navel were all a marvelous discovery. Could this be what John felt when he touched him? This fascination?

He paused, now finding his mouth above John's waistband, at a crossroads. He could stop and stay in relatively safe territory, or press on, continuing to explore. He flicked his eyes down, noting the bulge in John's trousers that had become quite evident.

Without planning to, he cupped his hand over John’s crotch, palming his erection. John let out a huff of breath, and Sherlock slid his hand deeper between his legs, feeling the hard outline of what lay hidden beneath his clothes. John groaned, shifting his hips.

He slowly slid his hand back up, ensnared the trouser button with his fingers, observing John. His face was flushed, his eyes slightly dazed, his expression expectant. Sherlock discovered he liked seeing John undone like this, enjoyed turning him to putty under his touch. He wanted to see more. Sensing he was about to set a rapid chain of events into motion, he slipped the button through its hole.

Somehow, with some help from John, the fly was undone, braces shrugged off, trousers and drawers pushed down, exposing the length of John’s cock. Sherlock gazed at it, taking in the plump veins and dusky hue, darker than his own skin.

“Sherlock --” John’s hands were suddenly at his waist, urgent, “let me touch you too.”

There was nothing smooth or glamorous about it, Sherlock realized. Lust was a frenzy. It was clumsy hands and knocking knees and smearing mouths, hasty fingers tangling in clothes. Once they were both free, trousers crumpled around their knees, they nestled close together, thighs touching.

He curled his hand around John’s cock, hard and thick and heavy in his hand. He shivered a little when John grasped him in return, his prick swelling within the hot circle of John's palm.

They kissed, their fingers stroking and thumbs gliding over the slick heads. It was difficult to concentrate, John’s fingers plying him to a mindless state of wanting nothing more than new pleasure after pleasure.

Sherlock was momentarily taken aback when John pushed his hand away, even more so when John spit into his palm. He soon understood when John wrapped that wet hand around both of their shafts and began slowly working his hand up and down.

“Christ…” Sherlock glanced down at the rosy heads pressed together, bobbing in and out of their foreskins, not sure which sensations belonged to his own body and which to John.

John covered his mouth with his own, their tongues soon twining in counterpoint to the strokes of John’s hand. Sherlock's brain stopped. He was nothing but sky and grass and flesh, blood rushing to his groin, a moan escaping from the back of his throat.

He could feel it building, the tightly coiled sensation low in his balls. His hand slid down to John’s hip, anchoring himself against his own need to thrust into John’s fist. His palm slipped lower, his fingers digging into the hard muscle of John’s arse, eliciting a guttural sound from deep in John's chest. That grunt, the sight of their cocks gripped in John's hand, the friction and tension -- suddenly everything rushed into a white blur.

He could hear himself moan through the waves that pulsed through his body, was dimly aware of John kissing him on the neck, of warm come streaking his stomach.

He went limp, sated, lying back, watching through half-lidded eyes as John jerked his fist over his cock, his breath a hiss as he climaxed in short bursts, the final pulses of milky come dribbling over his fingers and onto the grass. John collapsed beside him, panting.

They lay there, silent, basking in the afterglow, the sun setting. Sherlock couldn’t help but imagine what they must look like from a bird’s-eye view. Disheveled, half undressed in a circle of flattened grass, utterly spent. A low laugh shook him.

“What?” John turned his head, an uncertain smile tilting his mouth as he looked at him.

“I was so worried…” Sherlock confessed. “But really, sex is ridiculous. Look at us.”

John grinned, reaching over to pick a bit of leaf from Sherlock’s hair. “That’s why it's called the heat of the moment.” He kissed him lightly on the mouth, then drew back, searching his eyes. “Think you might like to try it again sometime?”

Sherlock slid his hand around the back of John’s neck, holding him near. “Very much so…”

John ran his palm up Sherlock's chest, his voice husky again. “Good, because I've got a lot more to show you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing that…


	11. Chapter 11

The night was warm, a weak breeze occasionally stirring the curtains in John’s bedroom. He turned from one side to the other, plumping his pillow, unable to sleep. He watched the curtains briefly billow then sag, the night air seeming to sigh in drowsy contentment.

John felt anything but content. He was restless, his thoughts constantly circling back to Sherlock. He scratched at an insect bite on his thigh, a souvenir from their dalliance in the grass several days ago. It had been worth it -- touching Sherlock’s pale skin beneath his shirt, the hard heat of their cocks in his hand, bringing each other off. 

For every taste he had of Sherlock, he wanted more, an insatiable desire permeating every waking moment. When he ate, he thought of Sherlock’s mouth, the taste of his lips. When he worked, he pictured Sherlock’s elegant fingers, the wide span of his hands. When he studied his anatomy text, he imagined Sherlock’s lean muscles, sharp hip bones, the weight of his long, narrow cock in his palm.

John threw off the bed sheet and sat up, agitated. There was no way he could sleep. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, scraping his hands through his hair in frustration. He gazed at the open window, an idea seeping into his mind. It was close to midnight, the house silent. If he were to quietly sneak out, no one would know…

He pulled on an old pair of trousers and shirt, then crept from his room and down the stairs, holding his breath at every little creak and groan his bare feet made on the steps. He found his shoes and slipped them on, biting his lip as he slowly turned the doorknob of the back door and pulled it open as if he were a night thief.

Finally out of the kitchen, he made his way to the garage where his bicycle was propped against the outside wall. He glanced back at the house. He was really doing this -- no turning back now. The wheels crunched against the gravel as he set off, his heart racing with adrenaline and anticipation.

No cars passed by, the road all to himself, houses dark, a half-moon lighting the way. He felt wide awake and utterly free. When Musgrave Hall came into view, he slowed, assessing his next move. He dismounted when he reached the lane, deciding to walk his bike in the grass, first stooping down to pick up several small stones. 

He walked around the house at a distance, carefully sticking to the shadows wherever possible. He didn’t know where Sherlock’s bedroom was, so he scanned the upper windows, looking for a clue. He was losing hope when he finally saw a faint glow from a partially open window on the south side of the manor. 

John lowered his bike into a hydrangea bush and watched the window carefully. It would be a disaster if Mr. or Mrs. Holmes or one of the servants caught him lurking outside in the gardens. He had no idea what his excuse would be. He willed someone to come to the window and peer out; two seconds, that’s all he would need to identify the face.

After several more minutes of waiting, John grew impatient. He fingered a smooth stone in his pocket, deciding he would have to take action. Stepping closer, he drew the rock from his pocket and took aim, calculating the speed, distance, and trajectory needed to tap the window hard enough to be heard but without risk of breaking the glass. 

Taking a deep breath, he threw the stone in a graceful arc, the point of contact confirmed with a satisfying tonk. He quickly stepped back into the shadows and waited again. Nothing. Cursing under his breath, he dug out another stone, stepped forward, and launched it up at the glass. Tonk!

This time a shadow wavered across the window and the drapes drew back. John took in a sharp breath when he recognized the angles of Sherlock’s face. John stepped into the wan light and waved an arm, smiling when he saw the surprise on Sherlock’s face. 

The casement window cranked open a few more inches and Sherlock leaned out. “What the devil are you doing?” he hissed.

“Come down,” John whispered, beckoning him down with exaggerated motions.

Sherlock glanced back into his room, then out at John, his expression undecided. He finally made up his mind, then gestured for John to wait where he was. John vanished back into the dark, his heart beating fast again. 

His feet were damp in the dewy grass, the air heavy with the scent of roses where he waited. He stared at the window, checking for any sign of movement. 

He jumped when he suddenly felt a flick on his neck. 

“Christ!” He whispered hoarsely, reflexively batting Sherlock's hand away. 

Sherlock grinned. “You’re mad, throwing rocks at people's windows in the middle of the night.” He was dressed in striped cotton pyjama bottoms, a button-down shirt hastily thrown on, the buttons left undone, his bare feet slipped into leather loafers. 

“I couldn't sleep,” John said, keeping his voice soft.

“Neither could I.” 

They looked at each other, enjoying the edge of risk in their midnight meeting. 

“Come with me.” Sherlock circled John's wrist into his hand and led the way through the gardens. They soon came to the glasshouse, the moonlight shining off its surface, the interior dark.

Sherlock opened the door and drew John inside. “We can't be seen from the house here.”

When John's eyes adjusted, he could make out the strange shapes of exotic plants, spikes and fronds and lush petals, heady tropical scents of spice and sweet twining around them, the air earthy and humid.

He reached for Sherlock, pulling him close, tilting his mouth up hungrily toward Sherlock's. He felt drunk, elated as they staggered back several steps in a tangle of hands and greedy kisses.

“I had to see you,” John confessed against Sherlock's neck that smelled of the white smoke used to lull the bees. John licked his skin, wanting to taste it. He wanted to taste every inch of Sherlock's body, wanted to explore him like a bee delving into the hollow of a flower.

He kissed Sherlock harder, pinning him against the far glass wall. “I'm going to teach you something else,” John breathed into his ear, slipping his hand between Sherlock's legs, massaging and stroking him until he was hard, the thin cotton of his pyjamas the only barrier between them. 

He trailed his mouth down the side of Sherlock's throat, skimmed across his collarbone, moving his hands to Sherlock's waist. It was easy to find the drawstring on his pyjama bottoms, a simple tug enough to loosen the tie, his fingers curling over the waistband. He worked the pyjamas down, exposing Sherlock, letting the soft fabric drape around his feet. 

He ran his hands over Sherlock's narrow hips, admiring his lean and muscular form, letting his fingers dent into the unexpected plumpness of his arse. Sherlock's cock jutted out, suspended between them like the stamen of an exotic lily.

John lightly kissed Sherlock's lips, his fingertips tracing down the heat of Sherlock's torso. Without breaking their gaze, he lowered himself to his knees, breathing in the muskiness and wisp of smoke that clung to Sherlock's skin. He gently grasped Sherlock's prick and guided the head to his mouth.

John slowly circled his tongue around the glans and Sherlock gasped, his hands squeezing John's shoulders, his body pressing back against the glass. John gazed up, watching Sherlock look down at him in wonder, their eyes locked in a sort of trance.

John teased Sherlock with his mouth, licking a stripe up the underside of his shaft, tasting the tang of hot skin. A tremulous drop, translucent, welled from the slit and John licked it away with a glide of his tongue, causing Sherlock to inhale sharply through his nose.

Taking his time, John closed his lips around the head, sliding over the roundness of the tip, looking up through his lashes at Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock's eyes closed, his head leaning back, then tilting forward again, watching John with dark pupils, his lips parted, his breath shallow.

“That feels… amazing,” Sherlock managed to utter.

John smiled as he slowly pulled back, running his tongue over the frenulum, then sinking the shaft deeper into his mouth, sliding down and up again.

“Oh, God…” Sherlock groaned, “keep doing that…”

He watched the shimmers of expression crossing Sherlock's face, sensuality and discovery gradually giving way to something more primal. John took him a little deeper, a little faster, Sherlock's fingers wending into his hair, his hips lifting in response.

John tightened his grip, stroking with his mouth and hand, saliva pooling at the corners of his lips, relishing Sherlock's increasingly incoherent moans. 

Sherlock's fingers bit into his scalp, his breath ragged, his bare arse pressed against the glass, his thighs trembling as if resisting the urge to plunge into John's throat. “Fuck -- I'm close --”

John worked him deeper and harder, chasing a raw desire to make Sherlock lose control. He could feel the strain building in Sherlock's body, muscles tightening, the quiver of his cock, and then it happened -- a groan, the jerk of hips, the rushes of warm come flooding his mouth. John stroked him through his climax, swallowing what he could, his fingers slick and gleaming.

Sherlock seemed to melt down the wall, sitting in a heap on the hard floor. Ignoring his aching knees, John pitched forward to find Sherlock's mouth. 

“Taste yourself,” John murmured, slipping his tongue between Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock grasped his shoulders, kissing him back without inhibition, his tongue lapping into John's mouth. Their kisses gradually grew less heated, slowing to nips and nuzzles, fingers brushing down necks and chests. 

They remained tangled together in an awkward embrace until it grew too uncomfortable. They shifted and Sherlock stood, gathering up his pyjamas and tying them into place. He vanished for a brief moment and returned with several folded canvas tarps. He arranged them on the floor, creating a makeshift bed. They nestled next to each other, hands resting on each other's legs. 

John idly gazed at a purple orchid that arced gracefully over their heads. 

“That,” Sherlock said quietly, “was fantastic.”

John turned his head to grin at him. “You enjoyed it, then?” 

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Should you like to repay the compliment…” John hinted, placing a finger on Sherlock's lower lip, “I'd be most obliged.”

Sherlock stretched his arms over his head luxuriously, his ribs standing out against his taut skin. “Good God, man, I need a moment to recover.” 

John smiled, drinking in the sight of Sherlock's face, tousled hair, and rumpled pyjamas. He traced his fingers down Sherlock's ribs, waiting for him to regain his stamina.

When Sherlock gazed back at him with a certain languid look, John peeled off his own shirt, providing a little more enticement. If he happened to flex his biceps and pectorals more than necessary as he removed the shirt, it couldn't be helped. 

Sherlock rolled to his side, shifting to his knees as smoothly as a cat, pushing John back down against the folds of canvas. He laid a trail of kisses over John's chest, teasing at his nipples, then down his stomach, his fingers straying to the button of John's trousers. 

John helped pull them off, simultaneously wriggling out of his drawers and sliding Sherlock's shirt off his shoulders, craving the contact of his skin.

Lying on his back again, he guided Sherlock between his thighs, anticipation making his blood sing, his hard prick standing at attention.

Sherlock placed a hand tentatively around his cock, gently pulling down the foreskin to reveal the head. John held his breath, waiting for the first touch of his mouth.

“Is there any particular… technique?” Sherlock asked uncertainly.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John groaned, dying of an unholy need to see those sinful lips wrapped around his cock, sucking and working him until he exploded in ecstasy. “Don’t take it too deep or you’ll choke, and careful with the teeth. Other than that, just --” he waved a hand, “have at it.”

The first licks were soft, an experimental test, enough to send sparks of delight up John’s spine. Sherlock soon slid his mouth over the glans, sucking lightly, and John hummed with pleasure. 

Emboldened, Sherlock moved his mouth further down the shaft, pulling up slowly, releasing with a wet pop. 

“That's good,” John breathed out, “brilliant.”

John watched, mesmerized as Sherlock’s luscious mouth and pink tongue resumed their explorations of his cock. His fingers bunched into the canvas as he fought to control his response, but it was a losing battle. Sherlock was a natural at this, agile fingers and velvety mouth finding all the sensitive spots at the right pace.

A devastatingly deft suck and swirl combination had John sliding his hands into Sherlock's hair, transmitting his urgent approval through his clutching fingertips. 

“Ahhh, God, that… hnnnng….” John growled, his pelvis tipping up. 

The encouragement spurred Sherlock on, his cheeks sharply hollowed, his lips forming a tight seal, his hand pumping John's slick shaft, his blue gaze burning into John's. 

It was that gaze, those cheekbones, that lock of dark hair falling in front of those impossible eyes, the sensations rippling from the crown to the root of his cock, the summer moon and scent of rare flowers, their rustic bed in a shimmering glasshouse -- it was spontaneous, secretive, a night charged with sex and magic, simply perfect.

His back arched when he came, the inky sky above him blurring as he was swept away by the undertow of orgasm, drowning in wanton pleasure. When he floated back to the surface, Sherlock was lying beside him, propped up on an elbow, watching him.

“Good?”

John let out a laugh mixed with a satisfied sigh. “God, yes.”

Sherlock smirked a bit. “I've always been a quick learner.”

John tugged Sherlock down to his mouth, whispering his praises before delivering a devilish kiss. “You're a goddamned prodigy.”


	12. Chapter 12

Several weeks passed, the weather growing warmer and the days longer. John was tinkering with the Model T that he had parked in the shade near the garage, trying to find the source of a rattling noise his mother had complained about.

Although his hands were busy with the motor, his thoughts were elsewhere, plotting a way to see Sherlock again. They were able to meet casually at the pub or at the lake with Molly, but finding a time and place for more intimate encounters was more difficult.

Asking to borrow the car always involved questions, as did telephone calls to arrange plans. His great aunt guarded the phone like a watchdog, wanting to know who had rung and why. She stationed herself by the windows, watching the comings and goings along the road.

Even the lake was dotted with other couples at night, summer romances in full swing. There were a handful of places they could go -- a quick snog in the car with the canopy up; a heated grope behind the boathouse; more languorous midnight encounters in the glasshouse.

John sighed, missing the privacy of his own rooms and the anonymity of a city. Villages like this and where he had grown up were filled with busybodies and rumor mills, everyone nosing into everyone else's business. In public, he and Sherlock appeared to be good mates, nothing more -- and it had to stay looking that way to the outside world.

He knew even Molly's friendship with them raised some eyebrows, people speculating whether he or Sherlock was her boyfriend. At the moment, that honor went to Constable Dimmock. Molly tried to make light of it, knowing that Sherlock didn't think highly of him. They occasionally had a drink as a group, John and Molly trying to keep Sherlock's little digs at Dimmock in check.

Dimmock was a decent bloke, John had decided. A little self-important, perhaps, but he was brighter than Sherlock gave him credit for. He was young and trying to prove himself, just like they all were.

“Got it figured out yet?”

John looked up, startled by his mother's voice. “Afraid not,” he gestured toward the engine. “I'm not sure what’s causing the noise.”

She handed him a glass of lemonade that he downed gratefully in several long swallows.

“Oh well. Maybe it's nothing.” She took back the empty glass. “But I do have another favor to ask.”

“What's that?” John asked, wiping his hands on a rag.

“There's a dance tonight at the social hall. Aunt Helen and I were asked by the refreshment committee to make some cakes. Would you take them there this evening?”

John hesitated, not sure why she couldn't do it herself. “I could drive you there.”

“The dance is for young people. You should go.”

John looked down at his greasy hands. “I'm not that keen on dancing.”

“Still, it’s a chance to meet someone, isn't it?”

“Mum, I'm really not looking, okay? We're just here for the summer.” John rubbed at a stain on his hand, wishing they weren't talking about this. “But I'll deliver the cakes for you. Glad to do it.” He dropped the bonnet back into place with a loud clang, ending the conversation.

He could feel his mother's eyes on him as he strode to the garage with the toolbox, his shoulders tense. He was angry that he couldn't tell her that he _had_ met someone, a person unlike anyone else he'd ever known. A person he wanted to spend every spare minute with and could barely find a second to do so alone.

And yet he'd said it himself -- they were only here for the summer, which was racing by. All too soon they'd be parting, going off to different lives.

John stood in the dusty light of the garage, suddenly struck with melancholy, already mourning the days that hadn't even passed yet. It would have been easier to find an uncomplicated girl for a few weeks of fun, then leave without a second thought. Instead, he'd found someone extraordinary -- and with whom there was no hope of a future.

He placed the toolbox back on the wooden shelf. There wasn't any point to thinking too far ahead. The only sure thing was the present. He and Sherlock should enjoy the time that they did have. And tonight he was determined to make sure they found time.

He went to the house and marched straight to the telephone, ignoring his great aunt’s stare as he picked up the handset and asked to be connected to Musgrave Hall.

When the housemaid answered, he politely asked to speak to Sherlock. He waited, choosing to study the flowered tablecloth instead of looking at his aunt who was clearly eavesdropping while pretending to do needlework. He would have to make the story plausible for her and anyone else listening on the line.

Sherlock finally picked up the phone. “Sherlock Holmes speaking.”

“Yeah, hi, it's John. I was wondering… do you have any plans tonight?”

“No, not really.”

“How would you like to do a good deed?”

“What sort of good deed?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.

“I could use some help. Our car’s on the blink, and I promised to run an errand for my mother. Think you could give me a lift?”

There was a pause, and John could tell Sherlock was trying to sort out how much of his request was true and how much was an excuse to meet.

“Where to?”

“The social hall. There's a dance there tonight and I need to drop off some things.”

“A dance…” Sherlock repeated doubtfully.

“Did I mention there’ll be cake?” John offered enticingly.

“In that case, what time should I come by?”

“Eight should be fine.”

“Smashing,” Sherlock said crisply, being a smart arse. “See you then.”

 

 

****************************

“Delivering cakes?” Sherlock asked, glancing at John as they drove into the village that night. “We really are desperate for excuses, aren't we?”

John checked the back where two cakes nestled in round tin carriers were perched on the seat. “It’ll give us a few hours, don't you think? We’ll drop these off, put in a brief appearance, then find something else to do with the night.”

Sherlock’s mouth curved up on one side, a faint color blooming on his cheeks. John loved that Sherlock blushed at suggestive remarks, his brusque exterior merely a shell for a much softer inside. However, John was discovering that softness co-existed with a steely curiosity. One moment John could be making Sherlock melt with pleasure, and within minutes he'd be the one gasping under Sherlock's long fingers and plush lips.

During their past few meetings, they hadn't managed more than heavy snogging and a few quick handjobs, the logistics for anything else never quite in their favor. John's gaze now lingered on Sherlock's mouth, imagining, as he had so many times, those plush lips snugging around his cock.

It was a vision that trailed him far too frequently, one that he could temporarily put to rest with a desperate wank in the shower or in his bed late at night. John felt the familiar hunger stirring and he quickly looked away, concentrating on the stream of cars and bicyclists heading into town. The dance was apparently attracting every young person within a 50-mile radius.

They drove slowly toward the social hall, finding a spot to park a distance away so they wouldn't be boxed in by other cars. A group of girls passed by, laughing, the beading on their dresses glinting in the last rays of the sunset.

John looked at Sherlock. “Ready?”

Sherlock's expression was unenthusiastic. “Let’s get this over with.”

Each carrying a cake tin, they threaded their way into the hall, squeezing past young women in colorful dresses and men in dapper suit jackets, the air heavy with perfume, hair pomade, and cigarette smoke. They were soon given directions to place the cakes on a long table against the wall. John had just set the rose-decorated tin down when Molly popped into view.

“Hello!” she chirped. “Don't you two look handsome?”

John turned, surprised by how stunning she looked in a pale green dress, her eyes rimmed with kohl and her mouth painted a poppy red. “You look lovely,” he said admiringly.

“Oh… this… “ she said modestly, plucking at her dress. “I mean, thank you. Did you bring cake? I didn't think you'd come.”

John’s head was spinning, not sure which of her statements to answer.

“Where's Dimmock?” Sherlock interjected.

“He does have a first name, you know,” Molly chastised. “Ian’s working. He’ll be coming later.”

The band began tuning up, and a ripple of excitement swept through the room. John glanced around at the eager faces, noticing how young the crowd looked. He couldn't help note that women outnumbered men. Apart from the chaperones and ladies serving refreshments, he was on the older side of the attendees, A few of the men who looked to be in their 20s were marked by the war -- a missing arm, a limp, an eye patch.

The band soon struck up a popular fox trot and couples flocked to the floor.

“Don't you just love to dance?” Molly asked, looking a bit enviously at the dancers.

“Not really,” John admitted.

Molly looked shocked. “Why not?”

“Never really learned,” he shrugged. “My family wasn't particularly good at having fun.” He meant it to come out jokingly, but he could feel both Molly and Sherlock's eyes on him.

“That's a shame,” Molly said quietly.

At that moment, they were pounced upon by a regal-looking woman with silver hair and overly strong floral perfume. “Sherlock? I thought that was you. How is your mother? I haven’t seen her in a age.”

Sherlock’s face blanched. “Mrs. Howard,” he greeted her stiffly. “My mother’s fine, thank you.”

Mrs. Howard turned to John as if he were a confidant. “I’ve known Sherlock since he was a boy. Always up to something mischievous, even though he was so quiet.” She turned back to Sherlock. “Tell your mother we miss her at the club. She’s so clever at cards.”

“I’ll tell her you said hello,” Sherlock replied. “But if you’ll excuse me, I promised Miss Hooper the first dance.”

He gallantly held out his arm, and after a moment of surprise, Molly took it and he swept her off to the dance floor.

John stared after them, just as surprised as Molly had been.

“Well,” Mrs. Howard sniffed indignantly. “Have a good evening.”

She stalked off, leaving John to drift back against the wall to watch Molly and Sherlock glide around the room. Sherlock stood out from the rest of the crowd, his steps quick and elegant, Molly looking up at him, following his lead, her face glowing.

John had no idea that Sherlock knew how to dance, much less that he could make it look so effortless. The only dancing John had ever done was a sort of half-drunk clutching and shuffling around a smoky beer hall crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with other couples, a scratchy phonograph or tinny piano playing. What would it be like, he wondered, to turn so smoothly, to be in step with someone, pressed close and anticipating each other’s movements, eyes locked together?

Molly looked positively radiant as Sherlock smiled down at her, guiding her across the floor. An irrational jealousy stabbed at John. He tried to dismiss it, knowing Sherlock had simply come up with an excuse to avoid more small talk with Mrs. Howard.

“Hello, John.” Ian Dimmock held out his hand in greeting.

It took John a moment to snap back from his thoughts. He shook Dimmock’s hand. “Molly said you’d be coming later.”

“Wrapped things up early,” Dimmock said. “Is she here?”

John nodded his head toward the dance floor, then watched Dimmock’s smile fade when he located her with Sherlock.

“Molly said she loves to dance,” John offered as an explanation.

“Sure…” Dimmock replied unconvincingly.

They both gazed at the dance floor, silently brooding.

“Say, you don’t think --” Dimmock started, then halted.

John glanced at him. “Think what?”

Dimmock looked uneasy. “Do you think that Molly’s sweet on him? They've known each other a long time.”

John’s eyes widened. He hadn’t seriously considered it before, but the way she was smiling at Sherlock now …

“No, no,” John answered, trying to sound reassuring. “They’re just friends. And they quibble all the time, haven’t you noticed?”

“Yeah…” Dimmock shoved his hands into his pockets, frowning. “So do my parents. And they've been married for 25 years.”

They brooded some more.

The dance ended, and Molly bounced over to them, a little out of breath, her eyes going wide when she saw Dimmock. “You're here!”

Dimmock bent down to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “You must be thirsty after all that,” he said. “I'll get us something to drink. Be right back.”

“And I'm going out for a smoke,” Sherlock added, slipping away.

That left John and Molly standing together.

“You two looked good out there,” John commented casually.

“Did we? I'm always afraid I'll step on someone's feet,” Molly laughed. She turned her head, looking at the door where Sherlock had disappeared. “But Sherlock is such a good dancer, he made it seem easy.”

John studied Molly's face. Something in the set of her mouth was wistful, her brown eyes a little less bright. John couldn't stop himself from speaking his thoughts out loud. “You have feelings for him, don't you?”

Molly shifted her gaze to him. “I don't anymore. I mean, I try not to. I know he doesn't think of me that way.” She folded her hands awkwardly. “For the longest time, I wasn't sure he knew I existed. But I always talked to him at events and things. He always seemed sort of... alone. So we're friends now, I think.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “So that's nice.”

John felt oddly grateful for Molly's honesty. “I'm pretty sure he thinks highly of you,” John reassured her. “I can't imagine he'd dance with just anybody.”

Molly smiled. “No, I suppose not.”

Dimmock reappeared, weaving his way toward them holding two glasses. “Lemon squash,” he announced, handing a glass to Molly.

John decided to take the opportunity to step away. “Think I'll go find something stronger to drink,” he quipped, then nodded a goodbye before wending back to the door.

He found Sherlock outside, leaning against a car finishing a cigarette.

“Where’d you learn to dance like that?” John asked gruffly, still feeling vaguely chagrined for no good reason.

“Years of lessons, along with the violin,” Sherlock answered, tossing the butt away. “Mother ensured that we were civilized.”

John looked pointedly at Sherlock's mouth, letting his gaze wander down his body, feeling possessive. “I'm not sure she entirely succeeded.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth crooked up. “I'm prone to corruption.”

John took another step, standing just a bit closer than was proper, the music muffled in the background. “I think we should go test that theory.”

Sherlock peered longingly over John’s shoulder at the hall. “But what about cake?”

John smiled in spite of himself. “Fine. We’ll have cake, then let’s get out of here. I think we might have the lake all to ourselves tonight.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonder what the Fox Trot looks like? Here's a lovely overview of [the dance in the 1920s.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DrLqM8mZhis)


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock let John drive the Vauxhall, enjoying John's obvious delight as he slipped the engine into high gear along the empty road. When they reached the lake, John's prediction that it would be deserted proved correct, not a bike or car or boat in sight when they rolled to a stop.

Sherlock grabbed the red plaid blanket from the back seat and they strolled to the dock, walking along the uneven planks and breathing in the sweet night air. Sherlock bent down and skimmed his hand through the water. It was cool, but not the bone-chilling temperature it had been at the beginning of the summer.

He glanced up at John, raising an eyebrow. “Do you know how to swim?”

“Of course. But I didn't exactly bring my -- oh.”

Sherlock lifted his eyebrow higher, waiting to see if John would take his unspoken dare. 

John looked over his shoulder, apparently checking for any other visitors, then met Sherlock's gaze. “I will if you will.”

Sherlock stood up and tugged at his tie, loosening the knot. “Oh, I will.”

Grinning, they pried off their shoes and socks, stripped off their jackets and shirts, and shimmied out of their trousers and cotton drawers, leaving everything in two heaps on the dock.

They looked at each other, smiling, their pale legs and arses glowing in the low light. 

John shifted his gaze to the water. “I think I'm going to regret this,” he muttered.

Sherlock glanced at the end of the dock, knowing the lake was deep enough to plunge into safely. “No sense waiting.” 

Drawing in a deep breath, he took a few running steps and hurled himself into the water with a resounding splash. The cold was a shock, slapping his skin and contracting his muscles. He burst through the surface again, letting out a shout.

The crash of John hitting the water greeted him, along with John's “Bloody hell!” when his head emerged. 

Sherlock treaded water, acclimating to the temperature. “It's not so bad.”

John splashed water in his direction. “It's not exactly warm, either.”

Sherlock dove under again, popping up next to John, then dunking him with a swift push. John bobbed up spluttering, his hair dripping into his eyes. “You wanker!”

Sherlock swam away in several strong strokes, but John soon gained on him, closing the gap. John grasped his foot, pulling him back with surprising strength. They grappled, slippery and laughing, trying to push each other under the water until they grew tired.

Sherlock turned onto his back, letting himself float, his ears covered by the water. He could hear only his own breath and the muffled rippling of small waves. He looked up, the stars glittering against the black dome of the night sky, Venus winking far above.

His fingertips brushed against John's arm as he floated nearby. Without looking at each other, their fingers entwined, linking them together as they silently drifted. 

They eventually swam a few laps to warm up, their strokes matched at an even pace. They finally headed back toward the shore, stopping when they could touch the rocky bottom of the lake with their feet. Standing, John pulled Sherlock closer for a deep kiss, their chilly thighs and bellies pressed together, water beaded on their lashes.

They clambered up the rocky beach and climbed back onto the dock, where Sherlock scooped up the blanket, shivering slightly.

He threw it over his shoulders then drew John into his arms, wrapping them both in its wooly warmth. John's hands slid around his waist, coming to a rest atop his buttocks. 

“We should build a fire on the beach,” John suggested. “I saw some wood stacked up by the boathouse.”

“Molly's family keeps it there for picnics.”

“Think they'd mind if we used some?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I just led her in the best dance of her life. That's more than a fair trade, isn't it?”

John pinched him on the bum. “You're so modest.” He retrieved his trousers and pulled them on, slipping his shirt and shoes on next. He tramped off toward the boathouse while Sherlock got partially dressed, then gathered their remaining garments. 

Sherlock scanned the beach, spying a large piece of driftwood that lay on its side. He walked over to it, noting the dark indentation among the rocks where previous fires had been built. The driftwood provided a natural buffer from the wind and a backrest, the ground worn soft and sandy where others had sat, a few empty bottles and cigarette butts littered about.

John soon joined him, carrying an armload of wood. “Find some kindling, would you?”

Sherlock obliged, wandering off to find a large handful of twigs, sticks, and dried leaves while John went back for a second load.

Sherlock crouched down, arranging the kindling and a few smaller logs in the fire pit. He rummaged in his pocket, finding his lighter. He flicked it open and struck a flame, shielding it with his hand as he lowered it to the kindling. He watched it catch and burn, orange flames licking and curling at the wood. 

It reminded him of starting the fire for the bee smoker. Working with bees was not something he'd ever expected to learn during the summer, nor was experiencing the intense blossoming of his own desires. He gazed at John, who now kneeled beside him, strategically placing a few larger logs on the fire.

How unlikely was it for the two of them to be here together on this mild summer night, to ever have met? He didn't believe in fate or destiny, but the odds of them finding each other in this tiny corner of the world were very slim. He didn't want to think about what would happen when the summer ended, when he returned to university and John shipped off for boot camp…

He stirred when he felt John nudge him, indicating that he should sit back against the driftwood where the blanket was spread out. He worked off his shoes and leaned back, stretching his legs alongside John's, warming his feet by the fire. 

They didn't speak, each deep in their own thoughts but still connected, their shoulders leaning into each other. The fire popped and snapped, sparks flying up into the darkness.

Sherlock turned his head, lowering his mouth to John's for a slow kiss, lingering over his bottom lip. He drew back, his eyes dropping to John's chin, trying to find the words for what he was feeling. He fingered one of the buttons on John's shirt. “I'm glad we met,” he murmured, knowing it wasn't quite adequate but unsure of what else to say.

John's mouth curved up in a soft smile. “Me too.”

Their lips brushed again, gentle and unhurried, John's fingers tangling into Sherlock's damp hair. Lying back on the blanket, an indulgence of hands and mouths unfolded, clothes slipping off again, lips on skin, a caging of cocks between slow grinding hips, their bodies supple and bending like young willows, lean and strong.

“You're magic,” John whispered near his ear. “I don't think I'll ever let you go.”

Sherlock glowed under his words, knowing they were wisps of romantic fancy, but thrilling nonetheless in their passion and newness. His answer was his mouth gasping against John’s straining neck, hips tipping up hungrily, fingers gripping pale flesh untouched by the sun. 

The faint breeze shifted, sending the smoke in their direction, stinging their eyes. Sherlock didn't care, the scent of burning wood permeating their hair and skin, imprinting the night into his senses.

 

***********************

 

Sherlock hunched over his mother's desk, a pen pressed against his lips in concentration. He stared at the mathematical formulas that filled the page in his mother's angular handwriting, willing himself to understand.

Trying to grasp her latest work felt like chasing a rabbit as it skittered ahead into a dense forest. He stumbled after the nimble creature with increasing difficulty, able to track it only so far until it vanished into an impenetrable thicket.

He sat back, defeated. He'd reached his limit of comprehension. 

Just then his mother came into the study to check on his progress, a tea cup in her hand. 

“Think you’ll have those looked over by the end of the day?” she asked.

He sighed and pushed the papers away. “I’d better stick to gardening from now on. You've lost me.”

“Have I?” Mrs. Holmes glanced at the formulas, cradling her cup. “Ah, well. It was inevitable, I suppose.” She straightened the papers with a red lacquered fingertip. “Maybe your brother could have a look when he's here.”

Sherlock's felt his face go hot. “Mycroft’s coming?”

“Mm, yes. I thought I'd mentioned that already. He's coming up this week as soon as he can get away from the office.”

Sherlock stood up and walked to the window, agitated. Mycroft always had a way of making him feel inferior with his snide remarks and disdainful glances. It made him peevish and argumentative.

“Do try to get along,” Mrs. Holmes said dryly, reading his train of thought. “I dislike migraines.”

Sherlock didn't reply, glaring down at the driveway as if Mycroft might appear any moment. 

“On another subject,” Mrs. Holmes segued, “I wanted to ask if that young man you’re acquainted with might be able to help out with a project.”

Sherlock turned to face her, wary. His parents had never met John, only knowing about his existence through the occasional vague references that he had made. “Doing what?”

“Your father has dreamt up an idea for a proper path into the rose garden. There's a load of flagstones arriving Thursday afternoon that’ll need moving. If you and your friend could help, that'd be lovely. Help save your old dad’s back.”

Sherlock rubbed the nape of his neck, unsure if he wanted John to meet his family. It could prove to be quite awkward. On the other hand, he'd get to spend an afternoon with John. “I'll ask him,” he finally agreed, not convinced he actually would. 

“What was his name again?”

Sherlock cleared his throat, hoping his voice would remain even. “John Watson.”

His mother pulled a face. “How original.”

Swallowing a sarcastic retort about his own odd name, Sherlock forced a smile. “Perhaps I'll telephone him now. See if he's available.”

Mrs. Holmes seated herself regally in her chair, pulling the papers closer for inspection, giving him a faint nod. Sherlock knew he was dismissed.

His hand was on the doorknob when his mother said his name. He looked at her, waiting.

“I appreciate your help with my book.” She paused. “You're a good mathematician. You should consider pursuing it.”

Such direct praise from his mother was a rarity, and it caught Sherlock by surprise. “Thank you. But I prefer dabbling with my chemicals.”

“Yes, you always have.” She tapped her cheek with the pen. “You once nearly set the house on fire while experimenting with a chemistry set when you were seven,” she mused. 

“That was Mycroft’s fault.”

Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes and waved her hand, dismissing him again. “Go telephone this John fellow.”

Sherlock pulled the door of the study shut, filled with an odd mix of emotions about his mother’s compliment, Mycroft’s impending arrival, and the thought of John meeting his family. Their carefully drawn boundaries might soon become uncomfortably blurred. He didn't know what might happen. He didn't like not knowing.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock watched as John hoisted the last flagstone from the back of the lorry, the tendons in his forearms standing out in relief beneath the rolled up sleeves of his chambray shirt. John lugged it toward the path marked out with twine and wooden stakes.

“Just over here, that should be fine,” Mr. Holmes directed, looking over the assortment of stones with satisfaction. “Well done, gentlemen. We’ll get the path dug out then start to lay the stones.”

Sherlock couldn't hide the dismay that flashed over his face. He was already tired and sore from unloading the stones. John glanced at Sherlock for guidance.

“Not you two, of course,” Mr. Holmes amended quickly. “I’ve got a crew coming in tomorrow to start digging. Sorry they couldn't help with the unloading today. The timing never quite lines up perfectly on these sorts of projects, does it? Now, you boys should go in and wash up for tea.”

“Yes, tea,” Sherlock said crisply, taking the opportunity to escape. “This way, John.”

“Thanks for your help.” Mr. Holmes gave them a jaunty wave.

“Er, good to have met you, sir,” John called over his shoulder as he followed Sherlock.

So far, things had gone reasonably well, Sherlock thought as he walked briskly to the house. John and his father had been equally pleasant, chatting easily about cars and the army and the best ratio of nutrients for rose bushes.

They had only briefly met Mrs. Holmes when John first arrived. She had greeted him in a civil but distracted way, a pencil tucked behind her ear and notebook in her hand, clearly preoccupied with something else.

“She's in one of her deep thinking phases,” Mr. Holmes had explained to John apologetically. “A lovely big brain filled with mathematics.”

“Sherlock's told me about her work,” John replied, sneaking a sly glance at Sherlock. “Brains must run in the family.”

“Oh, they don't come from me,” Mr. Holmes laughed, clearly happy in his ordinariness.

After they'd cleaned up a bit, Sherlock led John to the library where they settled in for tea. Left alone at last, Sherlock slumped in his chair and stretched out his legs with a groan.

John carefully balanced his cup and saucer, looking around at the leather-bound books and ornate furnishings with slightly nervous admiration. “This is… nice. The house, I mean. Very, um, grand.”

Sherlock rolled his head against the back of the chair, fixing John with a bored look. “It's cold and drafty and full of dull ancestral portraits. Musgrave Hall,” he sniffed. “I used to call it Mustygrave Hell.”

John's mouth twitched in amusement. “Well… Your parents seem nice,” he offered.

“Hm,” Sherlock grunted. “You won over my father when you asked about his roses.”

John smiled, relaxing a little. “I’m told I can be charming.”

Sherlock gazed at him over the rim of his tea cup. “You have your moments.”

John gazed back. “So do you.”

Feeling a bit provocative, Sherlock decided to tease John. “What I don't understand is how a debonair chap like you can know all about charm and seduction, and yet not know how to dance.”

“I recall you didn't know much about certain subjects, either.”

“And I've learned quickly, haven't I?” Sherlock's eyes went to the electric phonograph in the corner. “Maybe I could teach you a thing or two.” He pushed himself out of the chair, crossing over to the phonograph to flip through a stack of records on a nearby shelf. “No, that won't do… far too advanced for you… ah, here we are.” He held up a record with a flourish. “Something basic and rudimentary. A slow waltz.”

John set his cup and saucer down. “Look, I really don't need to learn.”

“Of course you do,” Sherlock countered as he slipped the paper sleeve off the record and slotted it onto the turntable spindle. He switched on the console and lifted up the needle. “Every British Army officer needs to know how to dance. You can't just stand there like a rube at social functions.”

“I'm not an officer,” John protested.

“Not yet.” Sherlock placed the needle carefully onto the record, the strains of a waltz soon filling the room. “Do you know anything about music?”

“Well, I played the clarinet at school.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You do have excellent embouchure…”

John smirked.

Sherlock pointed to the phonograph. “So then you know this is in ¾ time. Three beats per measure.”

“Right. I do remember that much.”

“Then stand up.”

Sighing heavily, John placed his tea on a side table and stood in the middle of the rug.

“You’ll lead, so arms up, like so,” Sherlock took his place opposite of John and arranged their limbs. “This hand here, and this one here, and lock your frame -- oh, do put some effort into it, John. Elegance.”

John furrowed his brow, letting Sherlock position their arms and hands until he was satisfied.

“Now,” Sherlock continued, “imagine a box in front of you. You're going to step into each corner of the box. Step forward with your left foot,” Sherlock pulled John gently, “then your right foot goes sideways to the right, yes, then bring the left foot together with the right -- ow!”

“Sorry,” John apologized quickly.

Sherlock gripped John's hand tighter, ignoring the pain in his toe. “Now step back with the right, back sideways with the left, together again -- and there's our box.”

John looked up from his feet, surprised. “That’s all there is to it?”

“It's a start. Let's do it again. Eyes up this time. Left foot forward, right foot sideways, together, right back, left back, together. Good. Now to the music.”

Sherlock continued his instruction until John had mastered the basic pattern. “Alright, now it's time to learn how to turn. Let's clear some of this furniture to the side.”

After they shoved several chairs out of the way, Sherlock returned the needle to the start of the record, and they took up their positions again.

“It's a quarter turn to the left with each half box,” Sherlock explained, and John glanced at him with alarm.

“It's not that hard. I'll walk us through it.”

They practiced, the turns becoming less awkward as John grew accustomed to the steps.

“Very good,” Sherlock praised John when they completed several rotations around the rug. “Try to relax. Not so stiff this time.”

John's hand clasped around his own was warm, his expression softening as he gained confidence. Sherlock gradually let John guide the dance, giving way to his cues.

John smiled up at him. “I think I'm getting it.”

Sherlock smiled back, enjoying the pressure of John's hand on his waist, the new ease of their synchronized movements, the tease of their bodies held close but not quite touching. They gazed into each other's eyes, the room around them fading as they slowly turned round and round.

“Aren't you two a pretty picture?”

An all-too-familiar voice shattered the moment. Sherlock whirled around to face the intruder loitering in the doorway.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock gritted out.

“Hello, brother dear. I wasn't aware that you were offering your services as a private dance tutor.”

Heat flushed Sherlock's cheeks, but he held Mycroft’s insolent gaze. “I'm simply helping out a friend.”

“A friend?” Mycroft’s eyes slid to John. “How novel.”

Sherlock glanced at John, who was staring boldly back at Mycroft.

“So you're the brother,” John stated, making no move to shake Mycroft’s hand. “The office worker. A clerk or something, isn't it?”

Sherlock delighted in John's cheekiness and the sour expression that pinched Mycroft's face.

“I hold a position within the government, actually.”

“This is John Watson,” Sherlock grudgingly offered. “Medical student and soon-to-be army doctor this autumn. He's here for the summer visiting his great aunt.”

John and Mycroft cautiously shook hands, sizing each other up.

Sherlock walked to the phonograph and switched it off, wishing Mycroft hadn't witnessed them dancing. He already felt at a disadvantage in his rolled-up shirtsleeves and braces, hands calloused and trousers dusty from the day’s work. Mycroft was impeccably dressed in a linen suit, his hands soft and lily-white.

Mycroft took a seat in an armchair and they studied each other for a long moment.

John cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “I’ll go and let you two catch up.”

“Stay.” It came out as a command. Sherlock kept his eyes on Mycroft. “I'll ring for more tea.”

“I already requested it,” Mycroft said smoothly.

At that moment, Mrs. Turner appeared with a fresh tea tray. Sherlock pulled a chair closer to the low table, and John followed suit, looking like he might like to pick a fight.

“I'll play mother,” Mycroft announced, picking up the tea pot.

“How long will you be visiting?” John inquired.

“Yes, how long?” Sherlock repeated, tapping his fingers against the armrests.

Mycroft smiled. “At least a week.” He passed a cup to John. “Has Sherlock told you we don't get along?”

“He may have said something along those lines.”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft as he accepted the tea. “We’re arch enemies,” Sherlock clarified.

Mycroft laughed, spooning sugar into his cup. “So dramatic. He's always been that way.”

Sherlock scowled, feeling 12 years old again.

“Mummy mentioned in her letter that you've been working with her on her book,” Mycroft continued. “And that you've been helping Father with the bees and garden. I thought she was joking.” He took a sip, his gaze calculating. “But I can see that you've been out in the sun. And you're quite fit. So… rustic. Such a change from the thin specter you were at Christmas.”

Sherlock blew across the top of his cup to cool the tea. “People do change. You should try it. Immediately.”

Mycroft smiled at his spoon. “Oh, Sherlock. How I've missed that juvenile wit of yours.”

Sherlock could see John's glance at them in turn as if watching a tennis match.

Mycroft reached for a biscuit and Sherlock couldn't resist a childish dig. “How's the diet?”

Mycroft flicked cold eyes up at him. “Fine. How's the cocaine habit?”

The blood drained from Sherlock’s face. He'd never told John the unsavory details about that part of his near expulsion.

“It's not a habit.” Sherlock objected, mortified to see John looking at him with a mix of confusion and disbelief.

“My mistake,” Mycroft said, sitting back. “Hobby, then.”

“You don't know anything about me,” Sherlock snarled. This was all going horribly wrong. He stood up abruptly, and John swiftly put down his cup.

Sherlock tried to gather what was left of his dignity. “I’ll walk you out, John.” He turned his back on Mycroft and strode out of the library, John close on his heels.

“What was that all about?” John whispered once they were in the hallway. “What did he mean about cocaine habit?”

Sherlock pressed his lips tight, not wanting to talk about it within earshot of anyone in the house. He led John outside and stopped by the Vauxhall.

“I’ll drive you home.”

John stared at him for a few seconds, waiting for an explanation, then looked away when none was offered. “You can trust me, you know,” John finally said, not meeting his eyes.

Sherlock knew John meant well, but at the moment every nerve in his body was raw and defensive. Mycroft always knew where to strike to make him feel like a failure. “There's nothing to tell,” he answered brusquely.

“Sherlock--”

“I said it's nothing,” Sherlock cut him off sharply.

John's mouth tightened. “Fine. Forget it.” He turned on his heel and walked toward his bicycle that was leaning against a tree.

Sherlock hesitated, then jogged a few steps, catching John by the shoulder. “Let me give you a ride.”

“No, don't bother.” John grabbed the handlebars of the bike, shrugging Sherlock's hand away. “I've had quite enough of the Holmes family today.” He pushed off, clearly angry.

Sherlock watched him ride away, his chest hollow. How had everything gone so badly in such a short amount of time? Why did he fall into Mycroft's traps time after time, behaving like a petty child? And now he had lashed out at John, pushing him away, ashamed to tell him about his own weaknesses.

Furious at Mycroft, more so at himself, he walked quickly back into the house, blindly heading to his room, slamming the door. He tumbled onto his bed, burying his head under his pillows, wanting to disappear.

Later, he forced himself to dress for dinner and join his family at the table, not wanting to start another round of trouble by being absent. With all the attention on Mycroft, Sherlock barely ate or spoke, slipping away as soon as possible.

He disappeared to sit in his smoking spot by the glasshouse, distracting himself by watching a butterfly flit from flower to flower.

“Spare a smoke?”

He looked up at Mycroft, who had discarded his jacket and sported an ivory waistcoat. Sherlock wordlessly handed him his cigarette case and lighter, lacking the energy to point out that Mycroft rarely smoked.

Mycroft remained standing, examining the cigarette more than inhaling it. “Interesting fellow, your friend Watson.”

Sherlock glanced up at him again. He knew he shouldn't take the bait, but he did anyway. “How so?”

“Reminds me of a bull dog. I think he'd tear my leg off if given half a chance.”

Sherlock smiled slightly. “He just might.”

“He seems very loyal.” Mycroft paused. “And you've only known each other a matter of weeks.”

“What of it?” Sherlock huffed, growing irritated.

Mycroft scrutinized the glowing tip of his cigarette. “You two seem very close.”

Sherlock froze, unsure how much to read into Mycroft's comment. But then it struck home. Mycroft knew about John. Of course he did. He had the same uncanny ability to observe and deduce, and he could easily read every undercurrent of their slow waltz in the middle of the afternoon.

Sherlock said nothing, unwilling to play into whatever game Mycroft was plotting.

“I'm not one to give advice, but I would caution you,” Mycroft said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Don't get involved.”

Sherlock bristled, but Mycroft pressed on. “He's leaving for the army. You’ll likely never see him again after this summer.”

Sherlock crushed out his cigarette, his hand shaking. How dare Mycroft talk to him like this, meddling in things he had no right to speak of. “Just stop,” he finally choked out.

“Believe it or not, Sherlock, I'm trying to help.”

“I don't need your help.” He stood up to face Mycroft directly. “And you don't know anything about this.”

“I know what I saw,” Mycroft replied, holding his gaze. “Your heart is ruling your head. And if you're not careful, your heart is going to be broken.”

Sherlock clenched his fists, stung by Mycroft's words. A thousand bitter retorts flashed across his tongue, but a cold finger of truth pressed against his chest. “At least I have a heart,” he muttered before turning away.

He stumbled back to the house, feeling like he was lost in a maze, becoming more and more disoriented with every turn. Mycroft's warnings replayed in his mind, amplifying the futility of his feelings for John. Their romance was pointless. It was going to be painful. But he had fallen in deep. He might even have fallen in love.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sherlock! 
> 
> I love the spikiness between Mycroft and Sherlock. Someday Mycroft will soften a little more, and Sherlock will realize how much they both care about each other. But not this particular summer.


	15. Chapter 15

The pub was quiet, the mid-afternoon lull perfect for studying while having a pint. John closed his eyes, his finger holding the place in the textbook as he silently recited the name of every bone in the body.

 _Nasal_  
_Lacrimal_  
_Inferior Nasal Concha_  
_Maxiallary_  
_Zygomatic_

It was first-year stuff, facts he'd learned long ago, but it was reassuring to tick off the list. This was something concrete that he knew when nothing else was making much sense.

His mind drifted back to Sherlock and the bittersweet afternoon they'd had -- the dance lesson, Mycroft’s interruption, the sharp exchange between the brothers. John had stayed clear of the Holmes’ residence the rest of the week, not wanting to cross paths with Mycroft again.

Plus, he had to admit, he was still miffed with Sherlock, not knowing what to believe about Mycroft’s cocaine remark. If it was true, then Sherlock was an idiot. It was a criminal offense to use cocaine without a prescription. Everybody knew that. The Dangerous Drugs Act had been passed just a few years ago following the war.

John shook himself, trying to refocus on the task.

 _Temporal_  
_Palatine_  
_Parietal_  
_Malleus_  
_Incus_  
_Stapes_

The table shifted slightly and John opened his eyes, annoyed at the disturbance. To his surprise, Sherlock had slipped into the opposite chair. John let the book close, folding his hands together, waiting as Sherlock flicked his eyes over the various texts and papers on the table.

“Mycroft's gone back to London,” Sherlock finally said, picking up a book and reading its spine.

“So you didn't kill each other.”

“Not quite.” Sherlock placed the book back on the table, then looked up at John. “I should apologize for my brother. He's a complete cock. Which makes me act like an utter prick.”

John grudgingly accepted the roundabout apology. “Are you two always like that?”

Sherlock flipped open a book. “It wasn’t always so malicious.”

“So is it true?” John asked after a pause, lowering his voice. “What he said about the cocaine?”

Sherlock frowned, then sighed, letting the book fall shut. “I occasionally use it to stimulate my mind, yes. And I occasionally need to quiet my mind with something else. But I'm a trained chemist, remember? I'm very careful.”

“Drugs aren’t an easy habit to break,” John cautioned, recalling several case studies on addiction.

“Neither is drinking.” Sherlock looked pointedly at John's glass, then peered at his chest. “Your flask is in your inner pocket. Almost empty.”

John pressed his lips together, heat prickling his neck from Sherlock's unwelcome observation. “You could be jailed.”

“Considering our relations, so could you.”

They held each other's gazes until John looked away first. He rubbed at a scratch on the table, knowing Sherlock was absolutely right. He had no place lecturing him; he was just as culpable. He leaned back in his chair, resigned. “Point taken.”

They sat in silence for several moments, letting the subject fade.

Sherlock ran a fingertip along the spine of the book he'd been leafing through. “Tropical diseases?”

“Just preparation. Chances are I’ll be sent to India, maybe somewhere in Africa.” John picked up a pen and toyed with it, trying to push back a wave of doubt. “Sometimes I wonder…” he started, then stopped.

“Wonder what?”

“If I'm ready for this. Going God knows where.”

Sherlock touched the cover of another book. “You'd be bored doing anything else.”

John turned the pen round and round, recognizing the truth in Sherlock's words. He couldn't picture staying in one place, never having a taste of the larger world.

But when his eyes fell on Sherlock's tapered fingers, another wave of doubt flooded his system. Leaving Sherlock was going to be difficult, more so than he'd ever imagined. He tamped down the thought, forcing himself to keep things light. “You never bore me.”

Sherlock looked up, a half smile on his lips. “You're not entirely dull, either.”

John swore there was something wistful in Sherlock's expression despite his teasing words, but it vanished, replaced by a carefully neutral gaze. John studied Sherlock, drinking in his dark hair that was turning lighter from the sun, the sweep of his cheekbones, the tender hollow of his throat that he now knew so well.

They had been apart only a week, and he was seized with the sudden urge to lean across the table and kiss Sherlock, to draw out that vulnerability again, to run his hands up his back and sharp shoulder blades, to finger the curl at the nape of his neck while slipping his tongue between his lips. He wanted his hands all over his body, to press his hips into his pelvis, finding an urgent hardness. His cock stiffened at the thought, warmth pooling in his belly.

“I would very much like to touch you right now.” John’s voice was barely audible, but he knew Sherlock heard him from the way his eyes darkened.

“Don’t you have to study?”

“I’m suddenly having a hard time concentrating.”

Sherlock glanced up, his gaze going over John’s head. He realized Sherlock was looking at the mirror hanging behind him, examining the clientele in the pub. A few patrons were chatting, the barman cleaning glasses with a white cloth, a few others staring out the window or reading the paper. No one paid them any attention.

“There's a storage room opposite the loo,” Sherlock stated quietly, his eyes meeting John’s.

It took John a moment to understand his invitation, but then he laughed. “You’re not serious.” He expected Sherlock to give way with a grin, but he simply raised his eyebrows a fraction. “Are you really serious?”

Sherlock pushed his chair back and stood up. “Follow me in two minutes.” He walked away, heading toward the back of the pub.

A thrilling quiver of fear ran up John’s spine. This was crazy. He toyed with his glass, too keyed-up to drink, trying to act inconspicuous as he pretended to read a page. The words were a blur, his nerves alive with anticipation.

He glanced up at the bar. No one had moved, no one was looking. Had a minute passed yet? He shifted, his cock still firm. God, this was agony. He counted to 30 slowly, then rose as casually as possible, trying to cover the slight bulge in his trousers with a well-placed but not-too-obvious hand.

His legs felt wooden as he walked to the loo, hoping no one was behind him. He entered the dim hallway, noticing a wooden door across from the bathroom. Straightening his shoulders, he put his hand on the brass knob and turned it, slipping into the storage room with fake confidence.

He closed the door behind him, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. A sliver of a window set high up in the brick wall let in a small amount of light, enough that he could finally make out several shelves, boxes, and burlap bags, a wooden work table pushed against the wall.

The click of a lock turning behind him made him swivel quickly, practically crashing into Sherlock. But Sherlock was ready, catching John up in his arms, folding him into a heated embrace.

“You’re already hard,” Sherlock growled approvingly against his throat.

John pressed against Sherlock’s groin, pleased to find him equally aroused. They staggered back against the worktable, mauling each other with mouths and tongues and roaming hands.

“God, I want you,” John whispered hoarsely,

Their fingers scrabbled at each other’s braces and waistbands in haste, fumbling ineffectively until they each took over their own unbuttoning, their erections finally springing free.

John smoothed his hands over Sherlock's arse, slotting their hips together, cocks wantonly rubbing. Sherlock nuzzled his ear and John turned his head, his eyes randomly landing on a bottle and rag left on the table.

The bottle was filled with a clear, viscous liquid, its label reading ‘paraffinum perliquidum.’ He recognized it as a light oil used to condition wooden worktops or knife handles. It could also lubricate bearings. The seed of a wicked idea quickly took root in his mind.

Speed was of the essence. He roughly turned Sherlock by the waist so that he faced the wall, their trousers sagging around their ankles. “Put your hands flat on the table,” John ordered, stretching past Sherlock to grab the bottle.

Sherlock looked a bit dubious but complied, leaning over to place his palms against the wood. John screwed the cap off the bottle and poured a pool of the odorless oil into his palm, coating his cock with a slick layer of sheen.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock hissed over his shoulder.

“Just put your feet together,” John answered. Sherlock did as he was told, and John guided his prick between Sherlock's legs. He pushed slowly into the tight gap between his thighs, Sherlock letting out a sharp breath at the contact. John leaned forward, his lips tickling the back of Sherlock's ear. “Have you ever heard of thigh fucking?”

A muted sound from Sherlock's throat indicated that he hadn't. John reached around to gather Sherlock's cock with his slicked hand, adjusting his stance until his hips molded to the curve of Sherlock's arse. He slid his shaft deeper between his thighs, then pulled back slowly, letting the oil warm and spread, continuing to stroke Sherlock with his palm.

Now that they had found their positions, John began pumping his hips, his other arm looping around Sherlock's chest for stability. It felt amazing, his cock buried between Sherlock's thighs, surrounded by the pressure of hot, oiled skin. He built up to a rapid thrust, the tension of being discovered heightening his arousal.

Sherlock shifted one hand to take over the stroking of his prick, the sound of their braces and belts jingling as they frantically rutted, the wooden table squeaking, their breathing punctuated with grunts.

It wouldn’t take much longer for John to come. He imagined fucking Sherlock like this, pounding into him, skin slapping, biting his shoulder, making him cry out in abandon.

John’s own low moan reached his ears as his pace stuttered then stopped, bursting in a hot release, his cock still trapped between Sherlock's legs. John relished the warm stickiness, sliding his cock back and forth in luxurious strokes as his climax wound down.

But Sherlock had yet to be satisfied. John wriggled his hands under Sherlock's shirt, skimming his fingers up Sherlock's ribs, finding the tight buds of his nipples.

Sherlock gasped, his hand desperately working over his shaft. John pressed into his back, playing with his nipples, still undulating his hips, strangely empowered by the knowledge that his come was trickling down the inside of Sherlock's legs.

“Come for me,” he dropped silkily into Sherlock's ear. “Come all over the table for me, you posh, dirty boy. I want to watch you paint it.”

His words were the tripwire that set Sherlock off, his body seizing under John's hands, strands of creamy come striping the dark surface of the table, a low groan vibrating through his chest.

Sherlock fell forward onto his elbows, panting, John's arms circling his waist. John kissed Sherlock's back through his shirt, his hands smoothing over his bare flanks. “You naughty thing,” John murmured, “with your ideas.”

“I wasn't expecting _that_ ,” Sherlock answered lazily.

The tread of heavy footsteps in the hallway and jauntily whistled tune made them both freeze in place. They waited, tense, until the bathroom door across the hall swung open on its creaky hinges and closed with a firm bang.

They went limp, relieved.

“Like I said,” John grinned, his adrenaline still running high, “it's never boring with you.”

“Same.”

Sherlock grabbed the rag and cleaned off his hand, then dabbed at his legs. John bent down and fished a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped off his cock, then the table. They quickly dressed and stuffed the rag and hanky deep into a rubbish bin set near the door.

They stood a moment to collect themselves, making sure the man had exited the loo.

As they waited, Sherlock reached out silently to adjust John's shirt collar, the simple gesture of intimacy making John’s heart skip a beat.

All was quiet in the hallway.

“I'll go first,” Sherlock said, his voice a rumble. He twisted the lock and stepped out, leaving John in the dim room alone with his tangled thoughts. Just when he should be distancing himself for his inevitable departure, damn if he wasn't falling deeper for Sherlock every second.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I only had time to post one chapter this week, but I wanted to leave ya’ll with some smut with feeling before I leave on vacation. It’s a family road trip to the mountains and various national parks, so that means limited wifi and writing time. But there’ll be more to come in the next few weeks! 
> 
> Feel free to drop me a note. I love to hear from readers. Thanks for following along!


	16. Chapter 16

White smoke swirled around Sherlock’s gloves as he lifted out the wooden frame laden with honeycomb, Mr. Holmes watching expectantly over his shoulder. They both leaned closer to inspect the bees’ work.

“It's coming along very nicely,” Mr. Holmes said with satisfaction. “See how much they’ve capped off here?” He pointed to an area where the geometric cells filled with nectar were each neatly sealed with a cap of wax. “Once they’re about 80 percent capped, we can begin harvesting. We should be able to have a taste before you go back to uni.”

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, not wanting to be reminded of how soon the summer would end. In three weeks he’d be boarding a train, leaving behind John and returning to his bleak life at university. Time was speeding by far too quickly. Needing to distract himself, he asked his father a question about the bees.

“How much honey will you take from the hive?”

“Oh, we’ll leave the bees plenty for the cold months. They overproduce. I suppose they want to hoard every bit of summer that they can, just like us.”

Sherlock slid the frame back into place, wishing there was some way to store up warm afternoons and starry nights, slow caresses and languid kisses. The autumn loomed ahead like a grey canvas, empty and lifeless.

God, he was being maudlin. He had to stop this self-pitying. He would be back in his old routine soon enough and could bury himself in his studies. He’d have access to a full laboratory again and time to devote to an array of new experiments. He should not let sentiment derail his ambitions.

And yet he couldn’t imagine what the days would be like without John. His hands stilled, his ears barely registering what his father was saying. Something about the details of honey extraction and storage. His mind as hazy as the smoke that billowed around them, Sherlock followed along quietly as his father inspected the remaining hives.

They finished up, putting away the gloves and netting and smoker.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Mr. Holmes said, hanging up his hat. “Your mother asked you to go see her as soon as we were done out here.”

“What about?”

“I’m not sure. Some sort of surprise, I think.”

Resisting the urge to point out that telling someone about a surprise negated the surprise, Sherlock returned to the house and washed up before presenting himself to his mother in her study.

He knocked on the open door. “You wanted to see me?”

Mrs. Holmes looked up and motioned him to take a seat in the chair that faced her desk. She carefully replaced the cap on her pen. “You’ll be returning to university in a few weeks.”

Sherlock groaned internally, wishing he didn't have to be constantly reminded of that fact.

His mother shuffled some papers on her desk, clearly working up to announcing something. “I just wanted to say that you've made quite a change for the better since you first arrived. I must commend you on your progress.”

Sherlock remained motionless. “Thank you,” he replied cautiously, always unsure when she offered compliments.

“You've worked hard,” she continued, “with both your mind and your body.”

He shifted in his chair, unable to hear the word _body_ without thinking of John's naked chest and thighs pressing against him.

Mrs. Holmes didn't seem to notice his distraction. “You've been particularly helpful to your father during Thomas’ absence,” she said. “Thomas sent word that he'll be returning early next week, now that his leg has had a chance to heal.”

“That's good,” Sherlock offered, still not sure why he'd been summoned.

“And you were quite helpful with my book, of course.” She stacked another pile of papers to the side. “So, your father and I thought you ought to be rewarded for all your efforts this summer.” She slid a slim packet across her desk. “We’d like to send you to London for a week.”

Sherlock's eyes widened. This truly was a surprise, being released from his confinement.

“I know it's not the Continent like you wanted,” Mrs. Holmes said quickly. “But a trip to the city might be a nice change before the term starts. Go to some galleries, enjoy the theater.

“I've also set an appointment at the tailor’s to have you measured for a few new suits and shirts. Whatever you need to make yourself presentable. I dare say you've been on your knees so much this summer that your trousers are worn through.”

Sherlock nearly choked at the unintentional implication and coughed into his hand, trying to banish all thoughts of kneeling before John's swollen cock bobbing enticingly in front of his mouth.

He cleared his throat, then slid the envelope closer with two fingers. He picked it up, glancing into the unsealed contents. Train tickets and a tidy stack of bills. He peered closer and knitted his brow. “There are two sets of tickets.”

Mrs. Holmes smiled. “I thought you might like to invite your friend, that John fellow. He was very helpful, and a good influence on you.”

Sherlock stared at the tickets, dumbfounded. Alone in London with John for a week?

“Well?” Mrs. Holmes prompted. “What do you think?”

“I -- I think it's a smashing idea.” He glanced up, surprised again by the warmth in his mother's expression. “I’ll have to ask John, though.”

“Of course. I'm sure he can be convinced.”

Sherlock looked at the envelope again, not sure what to say. “Thank you, Mummy.”

“You're most welcome.” She smiled once more, then turned back to her papers, uncapping her pen. “And have John measured for a new suit as well. A doctor needs a decent suit,” she added offhandedly.

Sherlock stood up, holding the envelope with care. He'd go see John right away and tell him about the invitation. He wandered into the hallway, still disbelieving this unexpected stroke of good luck.

 

*****************

The Vauxhall seemed to guide itself toward John's house, Sherlock’s thoughts already turning to the sites and shops he wanted to share with John. His family visited London often, the fast pace and unending variety of the city making it feel more like a true home than Musgrave Hall.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost didn't recognize the figure pushing a bicycle along the side of the road, little more than a silhouette against the evening sky. He slowed, then stopped, the gears whining as he reversed.

“Hello,” Molly greeted him as if they were meeting at the grocer’s. “My bike’s got a flat,” she said simply.

Sherlock peered at her, noting her eyes looked a bit red. “Are you alright?”

“I was just at the lake with Ian.” She paused, her fingers gripping the handlebars. “We sort of broke up. So it's not a very good day.”

“Oh,” Sherlock faltered. “I’m sorry.”

“It's okay.”

He watched her more closely, noticing a detail he'd initially missed. He decided to wait to mention it. He opened the door and walked over to her bike. “Hop in. I’ll give you a ride home.”

Sherlock lifted the bicycle into the back, then settled behind the wheel. They drove a few moments, passing John's house. No one was outside, but the car was parked by the garage. He turned his attention back to Molly. “You were the one who called it off.”

She sighed and nodded. “The summer’s almost over. I won't be back here until Christmas. There doesn't seem to be much point pretending our relationship is going to last. It's silly to try; people just end up making promises they never really intend to keep.”

Sherlock winced at her words, reminded again of his imminent separation from John. “That's very pragmatic.”

“Yes, it is.” She tilted her chin up. “Ian is nice, but I've got my studies to concentrate on. Besides, he's not the one for me. I'm not planning to stay here the rest of my life.”

Sherlock glanced at her again, her eyes fixed determinedly on the road ahead. He mulled over her words about knowing the summer romance wouldn't last, almost envying her decisive action to make a clean break.

“I've decided something important,” Molly said more to herself than Sherlock. “I’m going to do it. I'm going to be a doctor.”

Sherlock recalled their conversation at the beginning of the summer when Molly had said she'd wanted to be a physician but was pushed into nursing by her mother. “Good for you,” he said, impressed.

“I want to focus on pathology,” Molly added. “My father supports the idea.”

“And your mother?”

Molly crossed her arms, clearly peeved. “She’d rather see me married off and changing nappies.”

“How dull.”

“Insufferable. She’s living in the Dark Ages. It's 1923, for fuck’s sake.” Molly’s hand flew to her mouth, her cheeks turning red. “That just slipped out,” she gasped.

Sherlock couldn’t stop the laugh that rose up from his chest. “It sounded quite natural,” he teased.

“Oh, stop.” She waved him away, embarrassed. She tried to hide a smile, looking down at her hands. “I appreciate it, you know. How you always just let me be myself.”

He looked at her, surprised again. “Who else would you be?”

“You know what I mean. I don't have to pretend to be somebody else. I could swear like a sailor and you wouldn't mind. Not many people want to think about death and disease, much less study them, but you think it's a wonderful idea.”

“Because it is.”

She sighed again, letting her head rest against the back of the seat. “I'm going to miss you.”

He glanced at her once more, her face composed but tired. A wave of fondness washed over him. “I'm going to miss you, too,” he said quietly.

 

***********************

The flowerbeds were tidy, the fence freshly painted, the house neat as a pin when Sherlock knocked on the door of John's house. Even the brass fixings had been recently polished. He couldn't imagine anything else John could do to improve his great aunt’s property. It had been completely transformed over the past several weeks.

John answered the door, a smile crossing his face when he saw Sherlock. “This is a surprise.”

“That seems to be the theme of the day,” Sherlock answered. “And I've got another one for you.”

John leaned casually against the door, his hair damp, the top buttons of his shirt undone. Recently out of the shower, Sherlock surmised, the fresh scent of soap contrasting with the haze of beekeeping smoke that clung to his own hair and clothes.

“Then you ought to come inside,” John invited, stepping out of the way.

Sherlock entered the house, preparing himself for the awkward pain of making small talk with John’s mother and Aunt Helen. He'd met them a few times; John's mum seemed quiet and pleasant, but his great aunt glared at him like an angry hawk. He followed John into the kitchen.

“I was just about to make a cuppa. Want one?” John asked, reaching for the kettle.

Sherlock really didn't want to prolong his visit with tea. “No, thanks.”

John glanced at him over his shoulder. “Did I mention that Mum took Aunt Helen to see a specialist about her bad hip? They won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. We’re here alone.” He ended his explanation with a sly smile.

It was at that moment that Sherlock noticed John was barefoot, his ankles inexplicably enticing beneath the hem of his trousers. That sight, along with John's new information, made him forget why he stopped by.

In two swift steps he had John pressed against the edge of the sink, his lips on his mouth, his hands cupping his jaw, the kettle abandoned.

An hour later, sprawled on his stomach across John's bed while John traced lazy circles on his bare back, Sherlock remembered. He rolled over, propping himself up on one elbow. “How would you like to come to London with me?”

John laughed. “Sure, why not?”

“I'm serious.” He reached over the edge of the bed, scrabbling for his jacket that had been carelessly shed onto the floor. He pulled the envelope out of the inner pocket, then presented the tickets and spending money. “My reward for good behavior this summer.”

John looked at the items fanned out in Sherlock's hand. “You're joking.”

“Not at all. And you are invited as my guest, per my parents’ request. There's even a new suit in it for you.”

John opened and closed his mouth, speechless for a few moments. “But when would we leave? Where would we stay?”

“We’d leave first thing Monday, returning Saturday. I imagine Mother’s booked the hotel where my family always stays. It's in a good location.”

John ran a hand through his hair. “I'll have to check with my mum.”

“Surely she can spare you for a week. You’ve weeded, painted, and repaired every square inch of this place. What else can there be left to do?”

“That's true...” John looked skeptically at Sherlock. “But why would your parents want me to go along?”

Sherlock smirked. “They think you're a good influence on me, believe it or not. A reputable companion.”

John grinned, then pushed Sherlock onto his back, swinging a leg over his hips and straddling his thighs. “I'm an excellent influence. I've kept you out of all kinds of trouble,” he ran his fingertips down Sherlock's sternum, “introducing you to all sorts of new hobbies…”

A familiar warmth bloomed in Sherlock's belly as John's hand glided over his skin. He marveled that he could want John again so quickly, his cock rising half mast in anticipation.

“You are an eager one, aren't you?” John purred, stretching his body over Sherlock’s to reach his mouth.

Sherlock wrapped his legs around John as they kissed, clutching him tightly. He often imagined what complete intimacy with John would be like, John slowly coaxing him open, the hard tip of his cock gradually penetrating him.

What would John's face look like when he breached him for the first time? How would it feel, taking in John's length? What sounds would they make, John pushing deeper, drawing back and sliding in again, thrusting over and over until they were both senseless?

He wanted John, but not yet, not in this little room with lace curtains and braided yarn rugs. It should be in London -- far away in the city, the two of them alone among a sea of strangers, lying together in a soft bed in an anonymous room with an unfamiliar view that they could make their own, discovering each other all over again, hour after luxurious hour.

“Say you'll come with me to London,” Sherlock murmured urgently. “Promise it.”

“I promise.” John’s breath was hot against his skin, his voice rough with want. “I promise I’ll come.”


	17. Chapter 17

The train swayed, slowing as it clacked and clattered along the switches that led into the station. John looked across at Sherlock, sharing a private glance charged with anticipation. They were finally arriving in London.

The journey had been subdued, the compartment filling with several businessmen engrossed in newspapers and a pair of middle-aged ladies who vanished behind thick novels.

The air now smelled of soot, the temperature noticeably warmer compared to the countryside. One of the women fanned herself, and one gentlemen loosened his tie. John turned back to the window, eager to leave the stuffy train.

He was still amazed to be here, about to embark on a week alone with Sherlock with no chores, no studying, no parents, no expectations beyond indulging in every whim they could think of.

Highly aware of Sherlock sitting just a few feet away, John closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the night they had spent in his bed. They had come so close to fucking -- that sounded so crude, but a more delicate term didn’t come to mind -- but hadn’t. He sensed Sherlock wanted to, but something had held him back.

And if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t been quite ready, either. He had only been with one man that way, someone who was much more experienced and had shown him the ropes, so to speak. He had worried that things wouldn’t go as well with Sherlock, that what should be sensual and pleasurable might end up awkward and unsuccessful.

It didn’t help that they had been in his aunt’s house, the embroidered Bible verses and crocheted afghans hardly enhancing the mood. But the night had still been wonderful, curling around Sherlock’s back, breathing in the scent of his smoky hair, sleeping peacefully for several hours. Sherlock slipped out of the house well before dawn, returning home before anyone could notice his absence.

The train finally came to a stop and the jostling began, everyone eager to be on their way. They emerged onto the platform, pausing for a moment to get their bearings.

John shifted his suitcase into his left hand, noting how battered his luggage looked compared to the rich, unblemished leather of Sherlock’s. It brought home the fact that John could never afford a trip like this on his own. It stung his pride to accept everything from the Holmes, but the time he would have alone with Sherlock made it worth it.

“Let’s get a taxi,” Sherlock suggested, starting off toward the exit.

They had taken only a few steps when a large man in a dark uniform and driver’s cap stepped in front of them. “Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock stopped, irritated. “Yes?”

“I’m here to take you to your hotel. Mr. Holmes -- your brother, that is -- sent me.”

John waited, watching Sherlock’s reaction.

“Nonsense. We’ll take a taxi.” Sherlock took a step, but the driver cut him off again.

“He was quite insistent, sir. He mentioned that there were changes to your hotel reservations.”

John saw a muscle twitch in Sherlock’s cheek. More brotherly meddling, no doubt. John set his suitcase down to watch the exchange unfold, and to step in, if necessary.

“I have a note for you, sir.” The driver held out a creamy white envelope.

Sherlock snatched it from the man's hand and tore it open, unfolding the letter with a snap. He scanned the paper quickly, his expression changing several times.

“What is it?” John asked, growing concerned.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock answered, his mood suddenly calm. He tucked the paper into his jacket pocket. “Small change of plans. Seems there’s been some water damage at the hotel. Broken pipe. Mycroft’s made other arrangements on our behalf.”

“Okay,” John agreed uncertainly. Something was off, but he had no idea what was really going on.

“Lead on, then.” Sherlock waved a hand at the driver, who turned on his heel and led them out to a stately black Rolls Royce. The driver secured their luggage as they slid into the back seat.

“What’s going on?” John asked. “Why all the mystery?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, handing him the letter.

John unfolded the note and read it.

 

_Brother --_

_The hotel Mummy selected experienced an unfortunate burst pipe and water damage. I took the liberty of finding you and Mr Watson new accommodations._

_I've been informed the two rooms I reserved for you share a connecting door. I assume you won’t object to such an arrangement._

_The summer lasts but a short time. Carpe diem._

_M_

 

John glanced up at Sherlock, perplexed.

“It’s his way of apologizing,” Sherlock explained quietly. “The rooms in the first hotel don’t have adjoining doors.”

“So… he’s _not_ being an arsehole,” John mused, slowly connecting the dots. Mycroft was actually helping them, enabling them to pass freely from room to room -- and bed to bed -- with complete privacy. He wondered, though, if Mycroft’s actions should be read as giving them his blessing or going out of his way to protect the family name. “Wait, did he have anything to do with the pipe?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.”

John snorted, handing Sherlock the letter. “I really don’t understand your family.”

Sherlock simply smiled as the driver started the engine, guiding the powerful car into traffic.

John shook his head, settling back against the seat, watching London glide by.

 

  
*************************

The hotel, like the surrounding neighborhood, was quiet, much of the city emptied for the summer holidays. The rooms were handsomely appointed with large beds and private bathrooms, the sheets and towels a much higher quality than John was accustomed to. John’s room was on the corner of the building and caught a refreshing cross breeze with the windows open.

They had immediately unlatched the common door between them, Sherlock soon coming in to flop onto John’s bed with a sigh. John joined him, stretching out.

“We’ll stay in this room,” Sherlock declared, settling the matter of where they would sleep.

John turned to him and smiled, leaning over to kiss him. “This is perfect.”

Sherlock gazed back at him, a bell tolling somewhere in the distance. Four o’clock.

John’s stomach rumbled, interrupting the moment. They hadn't had a chance to eat a proper lunch. “Sorry, but I’m starving.”

“Me too.” Sherlock sat up, smoothing back his unruly hair. “C’mon. I’m going to take you to the best Chinese restaurant in the city.”

John let Sherlock guide him through Chinatown and into a dimly lit restaurant where Sherlock rapidly ordered a number of dishes. John had no idea what most of the things they ate were called, but it was delicious.

Afterward, they browsed through a few shops, then walked for a long time, passing through different neighborhoods. They stopped later for a pint, then walked some more. Sherlock seemed to have all the streets memorized, which was good, because John had no idea where they were.

A chocolate shop caught Sherlock’s eye, and they were soon crossing the street. Sherlock selected a bag of sweets that they shared, eating them quickly before they melted in the evening heat.

The lights of a cinema marquee came to life, couples and groups beginning to fill the tables at nearby cafes.

“I could do with a drink,” John suggested, thirsty after the sweets.

They found a cafe and ordered gin and tonics, settling back to watch people passing by.

“She’s having an affair,” Sherlock said out of the blue, his eyes on a couple several tables away.

“What?” John wanted to turn and stare, but resisted. “How do you know that?”

“It's written all over them. That man is not her husband.”

John stole a quick glance. They looked perfectly ordinary to him.

“How can you tell?”

“I just can. Her hair, his pocket square, the brand of cigarettes she’s smoking… Obvious.”

John glanced back again. It wasn’t obvious to him at all. “Okay, then what about that bloke, the man with the dog?” John nodded at a man walking a small dog along the pavement.

Sherlock took him in with a sweeping glance. “Single with a good job, but unsatisfied in his work. Frustrated poet.”

John laughed. “You’re making that up.”

He was soon pinned under Sherlock’s intense gaze. “Did I make anything up about you when we first met?”

John swallowed his words, remembering the unsparing details Sherlock had noticed about him at the beginning of the summer.

“No, you were spot on. Brilliant.” The cocktail was kicking in, making his mood light. He propped his elbows on the table, tilting his head flirtatiously. “And what’s my story now?”

Sherlock looked at him, his fingers playing over his glass beaded with moisture. “I can't answer that. Our situation is… too clouded.”

“Then I'll tell you.” John leaned in conspiratorially. “I'm a man who's about to finish his drink and walk into that pharmacy over there to buy a few necessities. You're going to finish your drink and pay the tab, then wait for me on that corner.”

Sherlock's eyes were locked on him, his fingers falling still on the glass. John had his full attention. He licked his lips, letting his mouth run on before he could think too far ahead and censor himself.

“Then you’re going to use the map in that amazing head of yours to take us back to the hotel, where I'm going to draw a cool bath, undress you, and join you for a long, lathery soak. I’ll dry you off with those sinfully soft towels, lay you out on that big white bed… and we’ll just see what happens, shall we?”

He could see Sherlock’s throat move as he swallowed.

John leaned a fraction closer. “We could wait,” he let his knee touch Sherlock's beneath the table, “but why? _Carpe diem.”_

He sat back slowly and downed the rest of his drink, then stood up. “Meet me on that corner in ten minutes.” He headed to the pharmacy, determined not to change his mind.

 

********************

The doors had been locked, the curtains closed, the bath drawn, the clothes undone, the soap lathered and rinsed. A trail of damp footprints and discarded towels led to the bed, all lights off except for one small corner lamp.

They laid side by side on the cool sheets, John gathering Sherlock into his arms, their skin still dewy. He kissed him softly, relishing the way Sherlock warmed under his caresses. Sherlock’s fingers slid along his nape and into his hair, pulling him closer.

John rolled a quarter turn, an elbow propped next to Sherlock's ribs, a palm smoothing down his shoulder and arm, continuing to his hip. He would never get his fill of tracing the contours of Sherlock's body, the hard bones and sleek muscles and plush curves.

John sank his fingertips into the mound of an arse cheek, biting down gently on Sherlock's bottom lip, releasing it with tug.

Their hips and legs found a way to fit as John moved his mouth from Sherlock's lips to jaw to neck, his thumb roving over a nipple, bringing it to a peak.

They shifted again, John on his back, Sherlock straddling his thighs. Sherlock’s hand slid between them to curl around John's cock. John let out a hum of pleasure, pressing into Sherlock’s hand.

John trailed his fingers down Sherlock’s back to the base of his spine, then ventured lower, lingering in the cleft between his buttocks. “Can I, with my fingers --?” he hesitated.

Without a word, Sherlock reached out a long arm to the nightstand and handed John the tube of lubricant he'd purchased at the pharmacy. John squeezed out a dollop onto his index finger, then glanced up, checking for Sherlock’s expression.

The way Sherlock looked at him left him breathless. A lock of hair had fallen across his blue-green eyes, his lips parted, each lean muscle of his torso defined in the low light, his chest rising and falling evenly but perhaps a tad more quickly than usual.

John’s heart quickened in return, suddenly nervous, stunned to have this beautiful creature perched over him, waiting. He tentatively moved his hand, placing his finger over Sherlock’s opening, massaging delicately.

“Okay?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes when John increased the pressure slightly.

He gently slipped his fingertip in, and Sherlock bit his lower lip, his hands flexing where they lightly grasped John's hips. He pushed his finger a little deeper, going slowly.

The room was warm, the faint sound of traffic floated through the window, a clock tolled the half hour, but they were unaware of time, touching and coaxing, stoking up an increasingly intense desire.

At some point they traded places, Sherlock sinking into the mattress under John's weight, their mouths hot and urgent.

“I want you,” Sherlock smeared the words against John's cheek, drawing his knees up.

John felt for the lubricant and opened it, his hands surprisingly steady despite the surge of heat running through his veins

Sherlock watched him, his eyes heavy lidded. John took a steadying breath, then lowered himself between Sherlock’s legs. He pressed slowly forward, the head of his cock sliding in. He almost gasped, the ring of muscle so tight around him, slick and firm yet giving enough to press deeper.

He watched Sherlock, making sure he wasn’t causing him discomfort. Sherlock held his gaze, flickers of emotions crossing his face. He gripped John just below his shoulders, his fingers digging into his back.

John moved carefully, feeling the moment when Sherlock relaxed around him, allowing him to thrust shallowly a few times. He dipped forward to cover Sherlock’s mouth with his own, hungry for his breath and lashes and rough stubble.

“You feel so good,” John praised, their noses pressed together, lips feathering over each other's mouths, his hips rolling slowly.

He pushed one of Sherlock’s thighs higher, thrusting deeper.

A small moan, half surprise, half pleasure, spilled from Sherlock's throat, his ankles crooking around John's back. “John…” Sherlock said breathlessly, “I like it.”

John couldn't help but grin, tucking his smile into the curve of Sherlock’s neck, tasting his skin, pushing in and out in a silky rhythm. Sherlock -- or maybe it was him-- moaned again, their bodies moving in sync.

John pressed himself up onto his hands to gaze into Sherlock’s eyes. “Touch yourself,” he encouraged.

Sherlock grasped his erection, accepting the slick dob of lubricant that John offered from the tube.

John reapplied another layer to his own cock, tossing the lube to the side.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock gasped when John entered him again. “Christ… I can't think.”

“Not supposed to,” John reminded him, barely able to form words, his hips pumping, his hands clasping Sherlock’s ankles, raising them out of the way.

“I -- John --” Sherlock gave up, working his cock, letting himself be rocked into the mattress. His eyes closed, his mouth falling slightly open. John knew that look -- he was close.

John felt the familiar sweet tension building in his own body, ratcheted even tighter with the knowledge that Sherlock was about to come. He thrusted harder, racing after that white exploding heat.

John suddenly slowed, knowing he was just a few strokes away from finishing. One... two… three… and he was there, waves of pleasure crashing through him, his come pulsing into Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock’s cock glistened in his jerking fist, his chest heaving. He gasped, his face contorting exquisitely. John watched through a haze, drinking in every detail as he climaxed with a long groan, his dark hair tangled against the white pillows.

John withdrew and collapsed partially on top of Sherlock, greedy for his mouth, his hands wending into his hair. Come trickled onto the sheets, their skin glowing from their exertion. John couldn't recall a time he'd ever felt more alive or content. Their fingers stroked cheekbones, their lips moved slow as honey, their eyes speaking quiet volumes in the dim light.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Finally. I think I need a drink after that.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock pried one eye open, his face half buried in the pillow. The room was quiet but for a few birds chirping outside the window, the morning light casting deep shadows on the walls. He closed his eyes again, hanging on to the last dreamy moments of sleep. It took him a moment to remember where he was: hotel… London… John stirring next to him in bed.

 _John._ A wave of warmth lapped over Sherlock’s body as he recalled the details of their night together. He laid on his side, processing the fact that he had allowed himself to become so intimate with John, marveling again at how far his carefully constructed defenses had crumbled away over the summer.

He took inventory of his senses, his limbs and digits, the acuity of his mind. Was he a different person now that he'd unabashedly delved into the world of sexual pleasure? Was he duller, more common, crude? Or was he sharper, more worldly? Had he even changed at all?

Sherlock’s thoughts dissipated when John turned, shifting the covers away from his shoulder. John listed forward, hooking a hand over Sherlock’s hip and placing a sleepy kiss on his upper arm before settling into the bed again. Sherlock pressed against John, enjoying the sensation of John's thighs snugging into his bum.

They lazed in bed, not moving, just breathing, until they both dozed off.

The sun was brighter when Sherlock woke again, John stretching his arms above his head before looping one around Sherlock's waist.

“We should get up,” John mumbled near Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock grunted and burrowed deeper under the sheets.

“C’mon,” John laughed, pulling at the covers. “There's a whole city out there, just waiting for us. Besides,” John added, dropping a kiss on Sherlock’s neck, “we’ll be back here tonight.”

The contact with Sherlock’s skin seemed to slow John's enthusiasm for getting out of bed, his lips lingering far longer than necessary.

“Last night,” John murmured, turning more serious, “was fantastic.”

“It was,” Sherlock agreed, relaxing against John’s chest, letting himself drift for several moments until he remembered their appointment at the tailor’s in a few hours.

It took a great deal of willpower to disentangle himself, but Sherlock sat up, running a hand through his messy hair. He looked at John. “Tailor shop at 1:00. Think you can be ready in time?”

John smiled at him, folding his hands behind his head, in no rush to move. “Of course.”

Sherlock had to look away, tempted by the curved muscles in John’s arms, the fuzz on his chest, the way the sheet barely covered his groin. He stood up, conscious of his own nudity, further distracted knowing that John’s eyes were trained on his bare backside.

He escaped to his room and hastily threw on a dressing gown before anything could happen to delay them further. They would never leave the hotel if they didn’t get moving.

Finally, after showers and shaves and a convincing rumpling of Sherlock’s bed to make it looked slept in, they closed the connecting door and exited their rooms for a quick lunch.

After dining, Sherlock hailed a taxi and directed the driver to the tailor’s. When they arrived, Sherlock noticed the way John hung back a bit, taking in the tasteful window display of elegant suits and silk ties. His face betrayed the faintest hint of uneasiness.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said, standing by his side. “My family’s been coming here for years. They do excellent work.”

“I’m sure they do,” John answered. “I just… I’ve never been to a shop quite this…”

“Posh?” Sherlock filled in.

John nodded, and Sherlock smiled.

“Relax. You'll do fine.”

Sherlock swept into the shop where he was greeted with professional courtesy. Sherlock introduced John, then the proprietor led them to a wall of deep shelves filled with bolts of fabric and a table piled high with swatches.

Sherlock was in his element, discussing worsted wool, jacket buttons, vents, and pleats. He could tell John was trying to feign interest, but clearly was following only half of the conversation.

“John here is more of a traditionalist,” Sherlock explained, knowing John didn’t really care what styles were coming out of Paris. “He's going into the RAMC soon, so he’ll need something appropriate for off-duty occasions.”

“We can certainly accommodate that,” the shop owner assured them, directing John’s attention to several swatches of a soft charcoal grey fabric.

Many details and decisions later, the owner called over the master tailor with a crook of his finger. “Let’s begin with Mr. Watson’s measurements.” He turned to Sherlock, assessing his build. “And you, it seems, will need some new measurements as well. Joined a sports club, have you?”

“Something like that,” Sherlock replied vaguely, smiling over at John, who was standing obediently as the tailor measured his back.

The afternoon passed in a blur of activity, ending with the setting of appointments for additional fittings. It was agreed that John's suit would be finished by the end of the week, given his upcoming departure. Sherlock could return later as needed.

As they stepped out of the shop, Sherlock felt invigorated, while John looked knackered.

“Pint?” Sherlock offered, taking pity on John.

“Oh, God, yes.”

They strolled along the pavement, making their way to a nearby pub when another storefront caught Sherlock’s eye. They stopped in front of a photography studio, an array of portraits on display in the window with the words ‘R. Smith Photography’ stenciled in gold. He paused, gnawing on an idea, then turned to John.

“Your mother… no doubt she’d like a photograph to remember you by when you're gone.”

John tilted his head to look at Sherlock, clearly reading his thoughts. “Your parents might appreciate a keepsake of you, too.”

They turned back to the window, silent for a few moments.

“It wouldn't be a terrible idea, to have one taken together,” Sherlock added. “As a souvenir of our trip.”

“No, not a bad idea at all,” John agreed.

They stepped inside the studio, a bell jingling above the door. Soon a stout woman in her 30s emerged from the back of the store, wiping her hands on a towel. Sherlock caught the scent of chemicals used to develop prints.

“Good afternoon. Can I help you gentlemen?”

“Yes, good afternoon. We’d like to have our portraits taken.”

The woman glanced at the clock that hung on the wall. “My father has left for the day. I can make an appointment for you later this week, if you'd like.”

“That's very kind, but you could take the photographs, couldn't you?” Sherlock asked, turning on his charm.

“Well, yes, but most people prefer to have my father do it.”

“Nonsense. We're here now, and you’re obviously competent. Some of the photos in the window are your work, if I'm not mistaken. The ones signed I.S.?”

The woman looked surprised, then brightened considerably. She tossed the towel to the side, then took several steps forward to shake Sherlock’s hand. “I’m Ivy Smith. My father usually has me do the photos of babies and children,” she said, turning to John, pumping his hand enthusiastically. “It’ll be nice having clients who can sit still for once. Now then, a portrait each?”

“Yes, and one together, please.”

“Ah, old school mates, are you?” she asked offhandedly, gathering a few supplies before leading them to an area with a canvas backdrop and overstuffed chair.

She chatted as she fussed with the camera and adjusted the tripod. “It’ll take me a few minutes to set up. There’s a dressing room with a mirror just around the corner if you gents would like to check your appearance.”

Sherlock followed John to the small room. John peered into the glass, smoothing back a few stray hairs.

Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder at his own reflection, adjusting his tie and sweeping back the lock of hair that insisted on falling across his forehead. When he glanced at John, he found John gazing at him, a slight smile hovering over his mouth.

“You look gorgeous,” John said quietly.

Their eyes locked in the mirror, and for a moment time was suspended. They stood together, their tanned faces contrasting against their light linen suits, their postures relaxed, their bodies glowing with the radiance of youth.

A photograph could never quite capture all they had shared during the summer, but they would have a record to remember it by in the years to come, treasured images kept secretly among the pages of a book or a locked drawer in a desk.

The premonition hit Sherlock like a blow to the gut, but he covered the pain, smiling back at John's reflection. “And you're devastatingly handsome.”

Their smiles wavered, falling serious. John turned to Sherlock, about to say something but stopping, his hand going to Sherlock’s chest instead. He smoothed Sherlock’s tie below the knot, his hand lingering before drifting away.

“Alright, everything’s ready!” Miss Smith called out. She popped her head into the room. “Who wants to go first?”

John exchanged a last look with Sherlock. “I'll go,” John volunteered with forced cheerfulness.

They cycled through their turns, Miss Smith lightening their moods with her steady chatter and compliments. “Lovely,” she said, finishing Sherlock’s set. “Now, let’s have you stay seated and your friend come stand by the side of the chair.” She ducked behind the camera to check the framing.

“Move a little closer, please,” she directed John. “Put your hand on top of the chair, just like that. Oh, you both look so handsome. And hold that--” the shutter clicked. “Perfect.”

After several more poses, they returned to the front of the shop where Miss Smith took down Sherlock's information.

“Lovely,” she said again. “I'll have the prints ready for you in two days.”

They thanked her and returned outside, Sherlock's mood turning melancholy again. They walked toward the pub as if they could slow time and stretch out the remaining hours of the day, extending summer indefinitely.

Sherlock wished he could touch John’s hand, slipping their palms together to find a reassuring squeeze. Instead, they walked on side-by-side with a respectable distance between them.

At the pub, they ordered their drinks and found a table near the window, watching people pass by as they drank. Sherlock tried to think of something to talk about, but drew a blank. Somehow, sitting together in a comfortable silence seemed to be enough.

Rested, they continued on past shops and into a sprawling park, strolling by children sailing paper boats on a lake, gentleman walking dogs, couples ambling arm-in-arm.

They followed a little-used trail that veered off from the main path, finding themselves on the far side of the lake. They were alone, Sherlock realized, a sudden flame of desire sparking at the base of his spine.

He spotted a willow tree, its long branches dipping into the water. He pulled John by the hand, leading him beneath the strange canopy of greenery, hiding them from view.

Sunlight dappled their skin, the scent of damp earth and gentle rustle of leaves surrounding them. He tugged John to his chest, kissing him with pent up passion.

John’s response was just as urgent, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s waist, his tongue plundering his mouth. John pressed him against the rough tree trunk, his palm groping between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock rocked into John's hand, wanting him to feel his need. Seized with recklessness, Sherlock stripped open his belt and hastily undid his fly, drawing out his cock. John’s fingers were wrapped around him in a heartbeat, stroking him quickly to hardness.

“Take me in your mouth,” Sherlock growled, pushing down on John's shoulders, groaning when the wet heat slid over his cock, John crouching, lapping and sucking, his fingers working in time with his mouth.

Tree bark bit into Sherlock’s back, his hand clutching John's skull, urging him to take his shaft deeper. He resisted thrusting his hips, denying the impulses that coursed red-hot through his veins.

“Ah, God,” he gasped, gazing up through the dense branches, wanting to prolong the exquisite pleasure throbbing in his body. He felt it boil over, unable to hold back, coming hard and hot in John's throat.

Sherlock’s legs felt weak, his arms languid when John rose up and claimed his mouth, his Iips laced with a musky taste and scent.

“You're in a risky mood,” John murmured, sliding his lips to Sherlock’s neck and pulling delicately on his earlobe with his teeth. “What daring thing shall we try tonight?”

“Whatever you want,” Sherlock answered huskily.

“Hmm, maybe I'll have you from behind,” John mused, “or perhaps l’d like you on top of me, riding my cock like a stallion.”

Sherlock grasped at John's shoulders, dizzy at the thought. But he had an additional wish, a vivid desire recently discovered. “There's something I'd like to try…”

“Mm?”

Sherlock hesitated, then let it spill out in a rush. “I want to know what it's like. To be inside of you, your legs wrapped around me. Fucking you.”

John pulled back slightly, surprised. He traced the tendon in Sherlock's neck. “Alright,” he finally answered, his voice soft. “I think I'd like to know, too.”

Sherlock kissed him, grateful, then smiled against his lips. “We’re going to need to stop at the pharmacy again.”

“We’ll buy every damn tube on the shelf,” John promised, a sultry gleam in his eyes.

 

 

 

*********************************

 

The box from the tailor shop rested on the chest of drawers, John's handsome charcoal suit folded neatly inside and nestled in tissue paper. The portraits -- signed and exchanged -- were now carefully wrapped and safely stowed in their luggage.

The week had sped by, the days filled with long walks and fittings, book stores and galleries, the cinema and bohemian restaurants. The nights were warm and lush, carnal and lusty with slick and salty skin, drawn-up knees and sinewy backs, hips plunging.

Tomorrow they would depart, their train leaving in a matter of hours. Back to their families, back to all the expectations laid out for them, back to the paths they had chosen.

John stared at the hotel ceiling, unable to sleep, the soul-searching hours of the night eating away at him. Sherlock was curled beside him, dozing with a hand tucked under his chin. John sighed, frustrated at his lack of sleep and inability to find some way to alter the course of the coming weeks. Sherlock couldn't follow him to the army, and he couldn't walk away from it.

John knew his livelihood and future depended on forging a successful career in the military. He simply didn't have the wealth or connections that a family like Sherlock’s did. Abandoning his plans and settling for a mediocre job in some small village would never bring in enough to help support his mother.

Even if he were miraculously able to find a position near Sherlock's university, there would still be innumerable obstacles to their relationship. And there was no guarantee that what they had would last.

They were both young, and people changed. He was wise enough to know that. And there was still so much of the world he wanted to see. Could he give up all his plans based on a summer’s infatuation?

John turned onto his side and gazed at Sherlock, wanting to find the answers in his unguarded face. The long lashes and full mouth revealed nothing, their beauty both familiar and unknowable. A pang twisted at John’s heart, but he was unable to put a precise name to it. Regret? Sorrow? Grief? _Heartache._

He knew then what his difficult decision was. Their time together was coming to an end.

He dipped his mouth to Sherlock’s forehead in a light kiss, breathing in the scent of his hair, closing his eyes, beginning a farewell, letting a few hot tears sting and fall.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I certainly didn't get all emotional there at the end. *sniffs loudly*
> 
> Never fear -- the journey through the Swamp of Angst will eventually lead to the Land of Happy Endings. We've got a ways to go though...
> 
> Meanwhile, drop me a note, say hello, tell me what your prediction is for how this will turn out, prod me to keep going, send chocolate or good gin...


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock held the jar of honey up to the window, fascinated by how it glowed like amber against the afternoon light.

“It's quite wonderful, isn't it?” Mr. Holmes beamed, admiring a jar he held in his own hand.

They were standing in the enclosed porch at the back of the house that had been turned into a room for processing honey. A few wicker chairs were pushed to the side, a metal honey extractor, buckets, and a wooden table covered with special implements taking up most of the porch.

Sherlock had missed helping to harvest the first batch of honey while he was away in London and was only now seeing the fruits of their labor.

Mr. Holmes placed his jar on the table and screwed off the lid, then handed Sherlock a teaspoon. “Have a taste,” he encouraged.

Sherlock took the spoon and dipped it into the thick liquid, quickly bringing it to his mouth before the honey could drip away. A golden burst of sweetness coated his tongue, floral and herbal notes shimmering through.

“Clover, and a bit of lavender and thyme, I think,” Mr. Holmes suggested. “And a touch of rose, I like to fancy.”

“It's delicious,” Sherlock exclaimed, letting the sweet warmth slide down his throat.

“We’ll send you back to uni with several jars,” Mr. Holmes promised, fitting the lid back on. “It'll be nice to have with tea on a rainy autumn day. Brings back a little of the summer.”

The honey suddenly left a trace of bitterness in Sherlock's mouth. He was trying not to think about the empty months ahead at university, trying not to constantly count down the his remaining time at Musgrave Hall. Ten days. Less than 240 hours left.

“If the weather’s good, we can harvest another batch tomorrow,” Mr. Holmes offered. “You might find it interesting.”

“I'd like that.” Sherlock welcomed any distraction, but his thoughts couldn't be contained for long. He traced a finger over a lid, thinking back to when John had kissed him the first time among the beehives. It seemed like a lifetime ago, not mere months. He was seized with the urge to see John again, as soon as possible. “Could I take one of these to John's family?”

“Of course! That'd be very neighborly.” Mr. Holmes gave Sherlock a little pat on the arm. “Now, I wonder if I can convince Mrs. Turner to make some raspberry scones for breakfast tomorrow…” He wandered off toward the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to brood.

The honey was a flimsy excuse to visit John, but Sherlock didn't care. They had barely seen each other since returning from London, and he badly wanted to talk to him. John had been quiet on the train ride back, and during their brief moments together he had seemed distant.

Sherlock had chalked up his moodiness to fatigue. John's aunt had tasked him with clearing out the attic so she could sort through the clutter, which led to a back-breaking purging of the cellar, pantry, and long-forgotten boxes in the back of wardrobes.

Not wasting another moment, Sherlock drove to John's house, the honey placed securely on the passenger seat. When he arrived, John was lugging a broken cane-backed chair outside, which he deposited near the garage when he caught sight of the blue Vauxhall.

John wiped his hands on his trousers, waiting for Sherlock to park and exit the car.

“Still hard at work,” Sherlock commented, looking over a pile of discarded items.

“I don't know how one person can accumulate so much rubbish,” John sighed, discouraged. “She says she wants to clear everything out, but then puts up a fight over tossing anything.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock answered dismissively, then winced inwardly at his own hypocrisy. Sentiment had propelled him here, clutching a jar of honey like a nervous suitor. He held out the gift, suddenly feeling a bit foolish. “Here.”

John took the jar, curious. “This is from your bees?”

Sherlock nodded.

John held the jar, turning it in the light. Sherlock watched him, holding his breath, wondering if he would say anything else.

John looked at the honey, smiling wistfully. “Maddest decision I ever made. Kissing you in that field full of bees.”

Something in John's words and expression made Sherlock's heart drop. There was a sadness playing across John's face, as if he were looking at something fondly from long ago, their summer already a distant memory.

“Do you regret it?” Sherlock asked, an edge creeping into his voice.

“No… no regrets.” John didn't meet his gaze, still focused on the jar.

Alarm threaded through Sherlock's chest, a warning that John was pulling away. But why was he acting like this? They still had time, days and days of it.

Sherlock took a small step closer, wanting to bring John back into his orbit. “When can I see you?” His voice was low and urgent. “I need to see you.”

John still didn't meet his eyes, instead glancing toward the house as if worried they might be watched. “I don't know. I have a lot to do.”

“We've barely seen each other. What about Saturday? We can meet at the lake.”

John hesitated, clearly conflicted.

“John. Look at me,” Sherlock pleaded. “What's wrong?”

John shook his head, his mouth a tight line. He finally spoke, his shoulders hunched. “Maybe it's not a good idea. To keep seeing each other.”

Sherlock froze, and John looked down at his feet. “I've been meaning to say something. You're leaving soon, then I'm off to training. Maybe it's just better to end it now. Leave it the way it was in London and remember that, how perfect it was.”

Sherlock kept his gaze on the broken chair, John's words hollow in his ears. He should have expected this, he knew that. But he never imagined how devastating it would be to actually hear it. He didn't trust himself to speak.

“I'm sorry. This isn't the way --” John stopped, wiped a hand over his mouth. “I'm sorry. But we both know there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Sherlock remained silent, knowing John was right but irrationally hating him for saying it out loud. He turned blindly away, unable to move his legs even though he wanted to flee.

“Sherlock… there's no easy way to do this. Please, don't be angry.” John reached his hand out to touch Sherlock's arm, but Sherlock shrugged it away.

“You're right,” Sherlock said stiffly. “You're the expert when it comes to these things. I was foolish to think we might spend our last few days together. Complete waste of time.”

John frowned, looking miserable.

“A handshake, then?” Sherlock asked, heavy with sarcasm, wanting to hurt John. “Is that the proper, manly way to end it?” He held out his palm, trying not to tremble. John didn't take his hand, lowering his eyes away.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated, his voice hoarse.

Sherlock dropped his arm back to his side, blindsided, unable to utter any of the things he desperately wanted to stay. “Fine,” he gritted, his tone icy. He could barely spit the words out. “Goodbye, John.”

He forced himself to walk back to the car and start the engine, deliberately ignoring the way John looked at him, his hand clenched in a fist, his eyes dark with pain. He backed the car up the lane and swung recklessly onto the road, roaring away from the house, shutting his thoughts down, fumbling for his cigarettes.

 

************************

Sherlock woke to a soft tapping on his bedroom door. He sat up, momentarily disoriented, unsure of the time. The sky was dark, but he was still in his day clothes, now wrinkled and damp with perspiration from a fitful sleep.

He had come home, downed an inordinately large tumbler of whiskey, retreated to his room, and fallen into bed, waiting for the alcohol to kick in and the room to tip and sway.

His father opened the door and peered into the dark room. “Awake? Ah, good. There's a telephone call for you.” Mr. Holmes looked closer. “Are you unwell?”

“It’s nothing… bad headache.” He tried to pull himself together. “Who’s calling?”

“Your friend John. Bit late to be ringing someone up. Must be important.”

Sherlock’s head was swimming, his mouth tasted like ashes. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

His father nodded and left the room.

Sherlock rubbed his face, attempting to clear his head. He was still a bit drunk, but felt no pleasure in it. He stood up, his balance off-kilter, and stumbled to the door. He leaned against the wall for a moment, debating whether he should take the call or just hang up.

A morbid curiosity won out, and he made his way to the telephone that was tucked away in an alcove of the upstairs hallway. He lifted the receiver, willing his voice to be cool and detached. “Yes?”

“Sherlock? It’s John.”

“‘I’m aware of that.”

“Right…” John sounded subdued. “Sorry for calling so late. I apologized to your father -- I lost track of the time, but I felt I had to call.”

Sherlock let John ramble, listening in stony silence.

“Look,” John pushed on, “about this afternoon. I'm so sorry.” He paused, his rush of words slowing. “I completely botched it up. You have every right to hate me.”

Sherlock listened, imagining John dragging an agitated hand through his hair, but said nothing.

“I was stupid, saying it that way. I just… I just don’t know what to do. I don't know what the right answer is.” John waited for a response. “Sherlock? Are you still there?”

Sherlock searched the ceiling, not knowing what he should say. He could hang up now and walk away, letting it end. Or he could answer. “I’m still here.”

The line hummed between them, until John spoke again. “Saturday -- the lake. Will you come?”

Sherlock twisted the telephone cord in his fingers, knowing they were delaying the inevitable. “Yes.”

John breathed out in relief. “Good. I’m glad.”

Sherlock took a breath in counterpoint. “So am I.”

The line crackled.

“Well… Good night, then,” John finally said, seeming reluctant to end the call.

Sherlock held the receiver, wishing he could reach out to touch John and undo the terrible afternoon. “Good night.”

Sherlock placed the handset back into the cradle, replaying their conversation, wondering what had changed John’s mind. He wove back to his room, exhausted, wanting to sleep until the weekend, missing the weight of John in bed beside him.

 

*********************

Saturday, they parked the Vauxhall in a country lane, not even making it to the lake, the evening sky an indigo blue. They left the canopy up and moved to the back seat, the leather creaking as they turned into each other's arms.

They kissed ardently, drowning in the need to touch and caress, fingers pulling out shirt tails, Sherlock pressed into the corner, John wedged between his long legs.

“What made you change your mind?” Sherlock murmured, sliding John's braces off his shoulders.

“You.” John's lips trailed to his ear. “You're like a drug. Impossible to resist.”

 _Even though we should,_ Sherlock finished in his head. John may have been right to call it off. Maybe it would have been easier to part ways now and accept the changes ahead of them. But maybe they needed to consume each other like searing flames, burning brightly but briefly, scorching their way to the very end.


	20. Chapter 20

_Penultimate._ The next to the last.

The word rolled about in Sherlock's brain all afternoon with John, knowing that this was likely their last stretch of time together. He was returning to university the day after tomorrow, the summer coming to an end.

Tomorrow, Sherlock's mother would commandeer the house, grilling him about train schedules and what he had packed, refolding his shirts, criticizing how quickly he wore out shoes, insisting on a last family dinner together.

On Sunday morning, his parents would drive him to the train station to see him off, his mother dabbing at her eyes, his father putting his arm around her shoulders and lifting his hand in farewell. It was always the same whenever he left for the new term.

But for the next few hours, he and John were alone together. They spent their time rather quietly, biking to the lake, rowing the small boat out onto the water, picnicking on the red plaid blanket, dozing in the shade. When Sherlock woke, John was gazing at him, lying on his side with his head propped in his hand.

Sherlock gazed back, wanting to remember exactly how John looked in the slanting light of the late afternoon.

“What if we stayed here forever?” Sherlock asked sleepily.

John’s mouth crooked up. “We’d grow old, you’d keep bees and I'd have a small practice in town. Molly would stop by for tea and honey.”

They smiled, imagining a different future for a moment, then Sherlock shifted his gaze to look up through the leaves. Staying was a fanciful notion, an impossibility, and a bit too dull, really. They both had far too much ambition. Still, it was a peaceful picture.

Sherlock studied the patterns the branches made above them. “Do you think you'll ever come back here?”

John thought about it, twisting a blade of grass between his fingers. “I doubt it. Mum will go back home a few weeks after I leave. I’ll be training at Aldershot for six months, then I ship out.”

“Five year’s commitment.” Sherlock filled in the length of John's service, his voice flat.

“Yes.” John plucked up a clover. “Hard to imagine.”

They fell silent, Sherlock trying to picture his life in five years. He'd be 25, maybe finished with a graduate degree in chemistry. But then what? Where would he live? What would he do for a living? Where would John be? He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about it.

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” John said softly, breaking past his thoughts.

Sherlock opened his eyes again, turning back to John. They couldn't do more than look at each other longingly, not with other couples strolling along the shore and a family splashing in the shallow water.

Sherlock held his gaze, time finally seeming to slow. “I want to sleep with you tonight.”

“Sherlock…” John dared to extend a hand, wrapping Sherlock's fingers in his own. “I want that too, but how?”

“My house.” Sherlock said impulsively. He warmed to the idea, suddenly seeing how everything could work. “The help has the night off, and my parents are going to some sort of charity gala. They’ll all be out late.”

“And tomorrow morning?”

“The back stairs through the kitchen. We’ll wake up early before anyone else so you can sneak out. We’ll hide your bike in the glasshouse tonight so you can ride it home tomorrow.”

“You're mad.” A smile crept across John's face. “And you're clever.”

Sherlock’s enthusiasm waned when he remembered John's family. “Your mother will worry if you don't come home.”

John shrugged. “I'll phone her, tell her not to wait up tonight.”

“Then it's settled.”

They looked at each other, fingers still entwined, anticipation beginning to simmer.

After an excruciating hour of waiting, they rode back to Musgrave Hall together, stashing John's bicycle out of sight. They entered through the back door into the silent kitchen, pots and pans hanging neatly from their hooks and the tile floor scrubbed clean.

Sherlock grabbed two pears from a bowl on the table and led John up the narrow back stairs, down the carpeted hallway, and into his room. He shut the door behind him, turned the lock, and set the pears on his desk.

John was looking around the room, lightly touching the spines of books, the violin case, the sheet music on the stand.

He turned to Sherlock, pulling him close, their hips touching, his face upturned. They stood for several moments bathed in the fading twilight, searching each other’s eyes, difficult words left unspoken.

Sherlock slid his hands up John's back and lowered his lips, finding the familiar warmth of John's mouth. If this was their last night together, he wanted it to unfold gradually, lingering over every detail.

They made their way to the bed, undoing a button, slipping out of their braces, savoring the slowness of their hands in the near darkness.

Piece by piece, clothing dropped to the floor. Lips hovered over bare skin, tongues leisurely tasting, teeth gently nipping.

Sherlock let John push him back onto the narrow mattress, his knees falling open, his eyes fluttering shut as John laid a path of kisses down his stomach, past his navel, down the trail of dark hair that led to his groin.

Sherlock gripped the sheets as John's mouth continued to explore the tender skin of his inner thighs, fingers curving under his arse, sliding up and teasing over his perineum.

He would miss him unbearably, Sherlock thought with a stab of pain, John's solid shoulders and thighs, the strong line of his jaw, his wry smile, his able hands, the weary but hopeful way he viewed the world, his sense of honor.

There was so much he didn't have the chance to learn about John. They knew each other's bodies intimately, but he didn't know his favorite color, or if he'd ever had a dog, or why he hadn't gotten along with his father.

“Hey,” John said softly, prowling back up to kiss Sherlock’s mouth. “What are you thinking?”

Sherlock’s fingers drifted into John’s hair. “What's your favorite color?”

John smiled, a little surprised at the question, but he thought seriously about it for a moment. “I don't think it's just one color. It's all the colors of the sea. Blue, green, grey. Or maybe,” he paused, brushing a wisp of hair from Sherlock's forehead, “it's your eyes.”

Sherlock felt himself blush, amazed that he could still be flattered so easily by John's words. He tugged John closer, falling back into the spell of the night, their lips a mere breath apart. “You're a flirt,” he teased.

“So are you.” John rolled onto his back, guiding Sherlock to straddle his hips.

Sherlock looked down at John, splaying his fingers over his chest, dragging his nails lightly through the coarse hair, watching John shiver with pleasure.

He curled a hand around John's cock, his thumb circling over the head, feeling the shaft swell in his palm. He stroked and fondled, coaxing out a translucent bead of precome, smearing his thumb pad across the slit. John's eyes were dark with want, his hands cupping Sherlock's buttocks.

Sherlock leaned over to the nightstand, finding a tube of lubricant left from their trip. He squeezed a dollop onto his fingers and reached back to prepare himself, keeping his eyes locked with John’s.

Another squeeze of the tube and he slicked John's cock, noting the way John bit his lower lip, the way the pulse in his throat had quickened.

He raised himself onto his knees, positioning himself on the tip of John's engorged cock, then sank down slowly, eyes half closed, fingers anchored into John's chest.

“Oh... God…” John breathed out, cradling Sherlock's hips, “you gorgeous thing…”

Sherlock sank deeper, holding on to the sensation of John filling him, his nails biting into John's skin. He raised and lowered his hips again, wanting to take every inch, John's lips parting with desire.

Sherlock increased his pace, banishing all thoughts, focusing only on _now_ , only on John's eyes, the sheen of sweat on their bodies, the power of his hips rhythmically lifting and dropping.

“Move, John,” Sherlock whispered harshly, possessed with the need to meld his body with John's. “I want to _feel_ you.”

John drew up his feet, using the mattress for support, and tipped his pelvis upwards, his hands grasping Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock met his thrusts, one palm pushing into John's chest, another gripping the headboard for more leverage, their breath ragged.

“Fuck me --” Sherlock gasped, his legs straining with effort.

The bed frame thumped against the wall, the bedsprings complaining in rapid squeaks

“Christ…” John grunted, pelvis bucking, neck straining. “Ah, God -- Sherlock…” John stroked one hand down his own chest, fingertips brushing over his peaked nipples.

Sherlock felt the tension building in John’s body, a tightening in his thighs and abdomen, the catch in his breath, the way he squeezed his eyes shut. He slowed, sinking onto John's hips, rocking him to the edge of his climax, gratified when John quivered and moaned, his hands sliding needily over Sherlock's thighs, his fingers gripping into Sherlock’s arse as if his life depended on it.

Sherlock pitched forward, caging John between outstretched arms, still riding his cock, working him through the aftershocks. They kissed endlessly, open mouthed, their tongues twining, salty sweat and semen trickling over their skin.

John sighed against Sherlock’s lips, his hands smoothing up and down his back.

Sherlock shifted and slid off to John's side, laying his head on his chest, resting a hand over his ribs. He could feel John's rapid heartbeat gradually slowing, John's fingers stroking through his hair, the minutes ticking by. He never wanted to move again.

John ran his palm down Sherlock’s side and over the curve of his hip. “Just so you know,” he murmured, tipping up Sherlock's chin to kiss his lips, “I'm going to worship your beautiful cock and arse with my mouth… tongue… and fingers…” a fingertip trailed down the damp cleft between his buttocks, “until you feel as good as I do now.”

Sherlock gazed up into John's eyes, joy, desire, and despair mixing in his veins. _This, remember this night, what it is to experience pleasure with abandon, how it feels to be held; store it away, revisit this, never forget._

John gently turned Sherlock onto his back, spread open his thighs, and lowered his head.

 

********************

At midnight, they ate the pears in bed, juice dribbling over their fingers and chins. They shared sweet kisses and soft touches, finally settling under the sheet, John spooning Sherlock.

They were quiet, both knowing morning was coming too soon. Sherlock wanted to say so much, distilling his thousand raw thoughts into one confession spoken into the darkness. “I'm afraid I'll never feel this way again.”

“Don't say that,” John whispered, stroking Sherlock’s shoulder. “We have our lives ahead of us. Who knows what will happen?”

Sherlock was doubtful. “I can't imagine being this close to anyone else.”

“Sherlock…” John started hesitantly, “so much is going to change in the next few years…”

He trailed off, but Sherlock could predict what John was trying to say, so he said it for him. “I shouldn't wait for you.”

John didn't reply right away, his fingers playing over Sherlock’s arm. “Five years is a long time.”

“I know. I don't expect anything.” If only he could convince his heart to believe it.

John pressed his lips against the back of Sherlock’s neck, interlacing their fingers. “I wish I could stay. I wish things were different.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing he could freeze time or hurtle it forward, wishing he could stop the emptiness that was already gnawing at his chest.

 

********************

They rose in the wash of early morning light, silently pulled on their rumpled clothes, and crept down the hallway to the kitchen stairs. They slipped out the back door, making their way to the glasshouse where John's bicycle was stowed.

Sherlock looked around, finding everything had a memory tied to it -- the glasshouse, the bicycle, the flagstone path and roses. In unspoken agreement, they headed toward the beehives, John pushing his bike through the dewy grass.

Far from the house, surrounded by the ring of hives in the sunlit meadow, they faced each other where they had kissed for the first time.

“We've come full circle,” John said, glancing away, trying to smile but failing. His fingers gripped and ungripped the handlebars. “I hate saying goodbye.”

“Then don't say it,” Sherlock advised. He could feel his armor returning, his defenses sliding back into place. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper he had hastily scribbled on that morning, handing it to John. “My address at university, if you want to write.”

John took the slip of paper. “Of course. I’ll write when I'm settled in.” He paused. “What we can say will be limited…”

Sherlock was aware of censors and the general lack of privacy in the army. Any hint of scandal discovered in a letter could end John's career. “I understand.”

He watched John slide the paper into his pocket. “Wherever they send you… don't get yourself killed.”

The corner of John's mouth crooked up. “I really don't intend to, believe me.”

They glanced away again, out of easy words.

John cleared his throat. “This summer…” he started, “was not what I thought it was going to be.” He looked at Sherlock. “It was so much more than I could have hoped for. I’ll never forget it.”

Sherlock held his gaze. “I won't either.” He looked down, his emotions churning, tearing at the wall he was struggling to keep in place. “John, I--” he took a breath -- _I love you._ “I’ll miss you.”

John’s fingers trembled and he let his bike drop into the grass, swiftly closing the space between them, grasping Sherlock's head in his hands, catching his mouth in a hard, searing kiss.

Hours later, Sherlock could still feel that kiss, his bottom lip bruised, a secret comfort that he held on to throughout the endless day and night. In the morning, he numbly went through the motions of bidding his parents farewell at the train station, finally boarding and collapsing into a corner seat in an empty compartment.

He rested his head against the window glass, barely noticing when the train lurched into motion. He let his eyes fall shut, the tip of his tongue touching the small cut on his inner lip, letting the sweet pain sting.

 

**_End of part 1_ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nooooooooo! I imagine many of you might be screaming that internally right now. (Sorry not sorry.) We are deep in the Swamp of Angst, but never fear! There is more of the story to come. 
> 
> Another note to thank all of you who are patiently following along and offering encouragement. Sending chocolate and fuzzy little kittens your way as thanks!
> 
> I'll be heading off to the lake myself this weekend to enjoy a little more summer vacation, so not much writing will happen, but beaches, ice cream, and blueberries will.


	21. Part 2: Phantom Limbs and Letters

** 1923 **

**September 1923**  
**RAMC Depot, Aldershot**

John sat at a table by himself in the corner of the officer’s mess, sipping a cup of bitter tea, staring at the letter he was trying to write. He tapped his cheek with the pen, re-reading what he’d written.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I'm now settled at camp and officially a lieutenant with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I’m still not used to being called ‘Sir’ but all the saluting is getting easier._

_Basic training is underway. There’s marching, endless marching, field exercises, coursework in hygiene and sanitation -- stuff you’d find boring, although you might enjoy the weapons training. The food is adequate but bland, and the barracks are noisy. I’m learning to sleep through all the snoring and coughing and how to wake up in the blink of an eye and stand at attention._

_I’ll be starting a surgery specialty in the coming weeks, which should challenging, but I'm excited._

_How is it being back at university? Have you heard from Molly?_

_I often think back to the summer and how wonderful it was. I miss our long bike rides and visits to the pub, the lake and stars at night. I miss the city lights of London. I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything._

John placed the pen back on the table and held the lukewarm mug in his hands, hoping Sherlock would read between the lines.

 

**October 1923**

_Dear John,_

_Or should I write Lieutenant? I can’t say I envy your life of marching about in a drab green uniform and studying latrines and disease-ridden insects, but to each his own._

_My courses are bearable, my professors tolerable, the majority of my fellow classmates dullards. There may be one or two exceptions, but I don’t hold out much hope._

_I’ve taken up boxing to pass the time. It’s not the official university club, mind you, but I’m taking lessons from a fairly reputable fellow. There’s a brutal elegance to the sport, although I’ve much to learn. I’ve already earned one black eye when I let my guard down -- a mistake I won’t make again._

_Molly has written to say that she’s getting along well and is one of five female students in her class. I’ve no doubt she’ll pass all of her coursework with flying colours._

_What else is there to tell you? The leaves are changing and will soon fall. My rooms are already drafty and chilly._

_I yearn for those hot summer days with the droning bees, the nights too warm to sleep, sheets in a tangle. I long to lie in the grass under the sun again. Sometimes I dream of it._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

 

**November 1923**

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I have 48 hours leave and am headed home to visit Mum. I’m writing this on the train and will drop it in the post as soon as I get to the station._

_I’m finally free to write this -- I miss you. I miss you. The weeks are speeding by so quickly, but there isn’t a day I don’t think about you. I miss your cleverness, the way you read people and know so many things. You're remarkable. Did I ever tell you that?_

_I’ve had a few pints, and maybe I shouldn’t write this, but I think about your lips, your eyes, your hands, the feel of you next to me, on me, under me, in me. I’ve reached for you in my sleep._

_Do you know what else haunts me? Your long neck. The shape of your back. Your naked arse. God, I love your arse. I want to hold it, I want you in my lap moving over me, my hands around you. I want to curl around you in the morning, you tucked against my thighs just where I can press into you, hard and sleepy._

_I imagine these things and there's no privacy, not in the barracks, not in the showers or the loo, nowhere for a man to have a few moments alone to relieve his frustrations. I'm wound up, ready to burst._

_If you were with me on this train right now, I’d lock the compartment door and have you so many times in so many ways that neither of us could walk for a week._

_Christ, you should burn this letter._

_I probably shouldn't even send this but I want you to know I will always care for you, deeply._

_John_

 

**November 1923**

Sherlock pushed opened the door to his rooms, carefully holding the unopened envelope from John in one hand, a stack of books tucked under his other arm. He was tired after a long day of classes, his shoulders and knuckles sore from another boxing lesson.

He crawled into bed to read the letter, his eyes widening at John's intimate confessions, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The smile wavered as he finished, his head listing against the wall, the letter falling into his lap. Every fiber of his body ached for John.

He often imagined seeing John just one more time, plotting ways they could meet somewhere when John had leave, finding some way to slip away together. But it would be unwise, too risky. Nor did he think he could bear the pain of saying goodbye again. It was best not to chase after such ideas.

Later that night he penned a short reply to John, hampered by the need to be vague.

_Dear John,_

_Your last letter was a pleasant surprise -- you have a vivid way with words that stimulates my imagination._

_I think about the same things as I lie in bed, scheming ways to have just one more taste of summer. It's a wishful dream._

_I've read about amputees who say they can still feel their missing arm or leg. Impossibly, a part of their body that’s no longer there still aches and burns. Phantom limbs. I feel like that sometimes. Surviving but aching for a part of me that's missing._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

 

**December 1923**  
**Christmas Eve afternoon, Musgrave Hall**

Sherlock hung at the back of the room, watching his parents, Uncle Rudy, and several neighbors chatting over food and drinks, the fireplace burning, the tree decked in garland.

Mycroft was trapped by Mrs. Howard near the piano, a tight smile plastered on his face. Sherlock relished the sight of Mycroft's misery for a moment, then was distracted by the sound of the telephone ringing across the hall in the library.

No one else seemed to notice the shrill tone, so he sighed and reluctantly went to answer it, shutting the door behind him to block out the noise of the party.

“Holmes’ residence.”

There was a distinct pause. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s heart quickened. “John.” All logic left his head, leaving only a rudimentary question. “Where are you?”

“I’m home for a few days. My God, it's good to hear your voice.”

“You too. I can't quite believe it.”

“Neither can I. It's been a long time.” John paused again, a note of uncertainty in his voice. “I hope it's alright, calling you like this.”

“It's fine. I'm glad you did.”

They were silent for a minute, John returning to a safe topic. “And your parents -- they're well?”

“Hale and hearty. Even Mycroft is here for the festivities.”

“I’m sure that'll make for a pleasant Christmas dinner,” John mused. “Aunt Helen is visiting us, and my sister may even turn up. I’m not sure how that will go over.”

“The joys of family,” Sherlock commiserated.

“Have you seen Molly?”

“Not yet. I'm sure I will.”

“Tell her hello for me.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Good…”

The small talk drifted to an end and Sherlock waited, simply appreciating the connection with John.

“Listen, there's something I wanted to tell you,” John continued after a moment. “I didn't want to just write it. I finally know where my unit’s being assigned.”

Sherlock lowered himself to sit on the edge of the desk, his fingers tightening on the receiver.

John took a breath and went on. “We leave for India in February. We’ll be posted at a base outside of Bombay. There's a hospital there; I'll be doing more training in surgery. Probably treating some routine stuff too. After a year, if everything goes well, I'll be promoted to captain.”

“Oh.” Sherlock knew he should say more, and struggled to find words. He suddenly felt very young -- and very aimless. John would be healing people, saving lives, establishing himself in a profession, while he would still be at university dabbling with chemicals, adding nothing of value to the world. For the first time, he regretted not having a strong calling to a cause or a career. “Sounds like what you wanted.”

“It is.” John answered quickly, then softened his tone. “It is, Sherlock. Almost everything I want.”

Sherlock swallowed, the impending distance between England and India all too real. “It's a three-week sail, isn't it?”

“If the weather’s good, about that, yeah.”

“Mail will be slow.”

“Probably, yes.”

“John --” Sherlock didn't know what he wanted to say, stumbling through a series of tangled thoughts, opting for a joke. “I don't suppose you can refuse to go, and just move to London instead?”

John laughed, playing along. “I'm sure they won't mind me being AWOL for several years.”

Sherlock looked at the spines of books tucked into the shelves, not really seeing them. “It's so far away,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

Sherlock remained immobile, realizing he had a choice to make. He could be unfairly resentful toward John for pursuing his ambitions, or he could be happy for him, keeping the thread of their friendship intact.

Friendship. That's what their relationship would have to become to survive the years ahead. He would have to recalibrate his expectations, temper his emotions, and accept the inevitable. John was moving on -- _had_ moved on.

“Sherlock?” John ventured into the silence.

Sherlock blinked, slowly refocusing, clearly seeing the different paths that lay before each of them, the first steps already taken. “You'll do well there, John. This suits you. I'm glad for you.”

Sherlock could hear John exhale. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

There was another long pause, the sound of laughter floating from across the hall, the notes of the piano starting up, Mycroft bowing to demands to play a Christmas carol.

Across the line in the background, he heard John's mother call him to tea.

“I have to go,” John said reluctantly.

“Happy Christmas, John.”

“You too, Sherlock. Merry Christmas.”

 

** 1924 **

 

**15th February, 1924**

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Today we left England to sail to Bombay. I’ve stared endlessly at the route on a map, but being on board a ship this large is unlike anything I could have imagined. It’s carrying our full regiment along with civilians and supplies._

_Even though it was cold and windy, I stood on deck watching the coastline disappear, filled half with excitement, half with nervousness. I finally had to come below to warm up._

_I'm scratching this note down in my cabin, trying to keep my eyes open. We started out very early this morning, and the constant throbbing of the engines is lulling me to sleep. I've never been so far from home before._

**18th February**  
_Today we arrived at Gibraltar. We had several days of rough weather, and I'm very glad I didn't join the navy. My stomach’s not cut out for it. Miserable._

**25th February**  
_Happy to say we've arrived at Port Said. The sea has been much smoother, and I've enjoyed walking on the deck for some fresh air and exercise._

_I met a young woman who is sailing to Bombay to join her husband, a squadron leader with the RAF. They're meeting in Bombay and traveling on to Lahore where he's stationed -- another 800-mile trip. That makes me bone-tired just thinking about it._

_I hope you're well and find something interesting in these ramblings. It helps me to write and to picture you listening._

**1st March**  
_I’m growing bored, waiting and waiting. Thank God it’s warm enough to stay on deck most of the day. I walk, play cards with some of the lads, try to read, try to write, but I mostly stare at the horizon or watch the birds that follow the ship, hoping for scraps._

_I’m thinking too much; I want to be doing something. Is this how you feel most of the time? I'm filled with a restlessness that reminds me of you._

**5th March**  
_One more day until we arrive. God, I'm ready to be on dry land again. Even though I feel a little anxious about what lies ahead, I'm ready to start this new chapter._

**8th March**  
_We arrived in Bombay two days ago. I’m sure everyone newly arrived says the same thing about the heat -- dear God, it’s oppressive. The air is unbearably heavy, and I'm told it will get worse. The city practically shimmers with colours, crowds, scents -- it’s overwhelming and strangely wonderful. I feel like I can’t take it all in yet._

_I’ve toured the hospital and met the surgeon I’ll be training with. I have my own little room, barely space for a bed, chair, and small table, but I’ll happily take it. As long it doesn’t rock and sway like the ship cabin, I’ll be content._

_I’ll write more later, but I want to send this off to let you know I’ve arrived safely. A new adventure begins._

_Yours,_

_John_

 

**April 1924**

_Dear John,_

_I was glad to receive your letter. You're there, at last, in the heat and colours of India. Someday I'd like to see it for myself._

_In the meantime, I'll have to make do with the Continent. My parents have agreed that I've earned the privilege of crossing the Channel this summer because I've behaved impeccably all year (at least to their knowledge)._

_I’ll be traveling nearly three months with no itinerary, just wanderlust. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to it, getting away, losing myself._

_I'm sorry this will have to be short -- I've an experiment running that requires my full attention if I hope to finish the term in good standing._

_I'm pleased for you, John._

_\-- Sherlock_

 

**July 1924**

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Rain, so much rain falls here. It’s monsoon season, the streets are flooded and everything is persistently damp. Thankfully, work has been very busy and engaging. I’ve assisted with numerous surgeries, which is always fascinating. My suturing is top-notch, according to my superiors._

_We hold a weekly clinic for civilian patients where I’ve seen diseases I’ve only read about in books -- beriberi and malaria and leprosy. There is grinding poverty here, children in rags, beggars… but my primary duty is to treat soldiers, most of whom have very mundane problems and complaints. I am learning so much each day._

_Tonight, as I write this, I wonder where your travels have taken you. Paris? Amsterdam? Madrid? Maybe at this very moment you’re on a train, or sitting at a cafe, deciding where to go next._

_I hope this reaches you when you return to uni. I hope you are happy and well. It’s hard to believe more than a year has gone by since we first met._

_\-- John_

 

**September 1924**

_Dear John,_

_I’ve meant to write, but I can never seem to find a moment. I barely made it back from my travels to start the term on time, but it is difficult to pull oneself away from utter freedom._

_I don't know where to begin trying to describe the summer. I traveled alone and very lightly, avoiding packs of tourists, wandering wherever my whims took me. I kept a little journal and was rubbish at writing letters except for an occasional postcard to my parents so they'd know I was alive._

_Since my return I’ve also taken up fencing, which is a long story, suffice to say that I’ve arranged regular lessons along with boxing. I'm spending more time in the laboratory as well, conducting several experiments of my own devising._

_You, meanwhile, must have been promoted to captain by now, or soon will be. Congratulations on your new stripe or star or whatever it is they give you. I'm sure you're dashing in your uniform._

_I hope the rains have stopped and your work remains satisfying. You always had such steady hands. A doctor’s touch._

_\- S_

 

**October 1924**

John held a pen in his hand, his chair pulled up to the small table in his room, poised to compose a letter to Sherlock -- and couldn't think of what to say. Nothing really had happened since he'd last written. Yes, he'd been made captain and the rainy season had ended, but nothing else of interest came to mind.

A small oil lamp burned by his elbow, the electricity out once again. A moth flitted around the lamp’s glass cover, throwing shadows onto the blank paper.

He picked up the last letter from Sherlock and re-read it, wistfulness flooding through him. He wished Sherlock had written more about where he'd traveled, why he'd taken up fencing, what his experiments were. All the little details were left out, leaving only the bare bones of the weeks and months that passed by, a skeleton outline.

He knew he was guilty of the same thing, writing with brevity in an artificially chipper tone, omitting his exhaustion, his doubts, his occasional homesickness. The constraints under which they wrote were prohibitive, but they could have shared other aspects of their lives.

John leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, struck with the realization that they were drifting apart, time slowly wearing away at their summer together. He tried to picture Sherlock, remembering his dark hair and startling eyes, the enticing shape of his mouth.

But the image in his mind’s eye wasn't as sharp as it used to be. Worried, John quickly unlocked the metal steamer trunk at the foot of his bed and pulled out a smaller lock box. He rifled through the papers until he found the photos they had taken in London. Holding Sherlock’s portrait by the edges, John drank in the planes and angles of his face, missing him.

For the first time in a long time, John was lonely. The army had consumed his life for more than a year, his attention dominated by his duties. He rarely thought about romance or sex anymore, not when his hands were sewing intricate stitches in an open body, not when he listened to a patient’s lungs or heart, not when he fell asleep beneath the mosquito netting, too tired to think about anything but the next day’s roster.

He lightly ran his thumb across the photo, revisiting memories. After several minutes, he carefully placed the photo back into the box, then put away the paper and pen. He would write later, when there was more to say.

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

** 1925 **

**February 1925**

Sherlock climbed the stairs to his rooms, ignoring the laughs and chatter floating up from the common room. He had no desire to socialize, his mind still turning over a new theory.

“Watch it, Holmes.” A shoulder and a sneer pushed past him on the steps.

Phillip Anderson, of course.

Sherlock didn't bother to reply. He unlocked his door and stepped into the quiet darkness of his room, relieved to be alone.

Without switching on the light, he took off his coat and scarf and crossed over to the window to stare down at the street lamps and a few students scurrying by. His eyes rose up to the rooftops and night sky.

He wondered what John was doing at this moment, if he was awake and staring at the same sliver of moon. There hadn't been a letter from John in months, just a Christmas card with a few lines. He'd sent a card as well, a quick note dashed inside. What if they were running out of things to say?

He reached an arm to the bookshelf, pulling out a thick volume with a red cloth cover. The pages fell open easily to the two photographs tucked inside. He gazed at the portrait of John, then at the photo of them together. How he wished he could recapture the feelings of that summer, relive every touch and glance. It was like trying to grasp a wisp of smoke, vapor vanishing between his fingers.

He replaced the photographs and slid the book back into place, then picked up his violin and bow, standing at the window without playing.

 

 **March 1925**  
A postcard

_Dear Sherlock: Finally have leave and took the train to Delhi with some mates. Amazing sights, enjoying a proper hotel and soft bed, can stay out and sleep in as late as I want. I could get used to this civilian life. -John_

 

 **June 1925**  
A postcard

_Dear John: In Paris for two weeks, then moving on. Haven't decided where I'll go next. I’ll be visiting home before returning to university. I’ll say hello to the bees for you. -S_

 

 **December 1925**  
**London**

Sherlock walked past the dark shop windows and hunkered deeper into his coat against the icy wind whipping down the street. The city was quiet this evening, recuperating after several days of Christmas celebrations.

He turned suddenly and entered a cafe, needing to warm up with a cup of tea and a sandwich before returning to his rented flat. For the first time in memory, there had been no family gathering at Musgrave Hall. His parents were away on a lengthy holiday, something they'd talked about doing for years, and he’d arranged to stay in London rather than rattle around home alone.

Christmas had consisted of meeting Mycroft for an impeccable but soulless dinner at his club a few days before the actual holiday. They kept the conversation polite, the discussion centered on his current graduate-level studies.

Now at the cafe, Sherlock dug through the sheaf of papers in his satchel, finally locating the letter from John he'd received that morning. He hadn't had a chance to read it yet, only scanning the postmark to note that it had been mailed in November.

He held it for a moment, regretting that their exchange of letters had dwindled over the past year. Yet it wasn't all that surprising. Their lives had fallen into routines and increasing responsibilities, leaving little time and few new subjects to write about.

His own days were a circle of classes, the laboratory, and his rooms, with the occasional foray into town to obtain certain necessities. He was still a loner, sometimes going days without uttering a word to anyone.

Sherlock opened the envelope, smoothing out the sheet of paper, recognizing the sloping handwriting. John described training a new cohort of recruits _(they're all so young)_ , seeing a few bizarre medical cases _(even the senior docs were mystified)_ , and treating his first patient with a gunshot wound _(it was worse than I'd imagined)._

And then he came to the closing paragraph:

_I attended a social a few weeks ago. All officers were required to go and there was no getting out of it. I usually hate those things, so I'm surprised to say that I actually had a good time. I was seated next to an interesting young woman. She was born in England but her family came to India when she was five. She's a nurse at the women's hospital. We started chatting about that and ended up talking all evening._

_It’s nice to have a real conversation with someone. We’ve met for tea or a walk several times. She’s smart, witty, and has a lovely smile. Her name is Mary._

_I'm on duty in a few minutes, so I’ll wish you a happy Christmas and hope your studies are going well._

_\- John_

Sherlock re-read the last few lines, his heart sinking. _Her name is Mary._

He folded the letter with stiff fingers and placed it back into the envelope, telling himself that it didn't necessarily mean anything.

He put the letter back into his satchel and picked up the newspaper that a previous customer had left behind on a nearby table. He scanned the headlines for the crime reports, trying to distract himself. _Jewel thief still at large. Headless body dragged from Thames. No new leads in kidnapping case._

He devoured the articles, critiquing Scotland Yard’s inept methods, his tea going cold. _Her name is Mary._

 

**1926**

 

**November 1926**

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I know it's been awhile since I last wrote, but I wanted to send you a quick note to say hello (Hello!). I'm really enjoying my pathology classes. I've had some fantastic cadavers to work with, so that's been a treat. I suppose that sounds odd, but you know what I mean._

_You must nearly be done with your graduate degree. I envy you. It feels like I've been in uni forever._

_Anyway, my mum sent me a newspaper clipping that she thought I might find interesting. She ran into Helen Watson -- John's old aunt, remember? She’s still alive, believe it or not. She showed my mum the clipping, and my Mum asked if she could have it to send to me. So now I'm sending it to you, in case you hadn't heard the news. I'm not sure if you and John correspond anymore…_

_So, let me know if you’ll be home this Christmas?_

_Your friend,_

_Molly_

Sherlock set Molly's letter aside and picked up the folded square of newsprint, dread knotting his stomach. Neither he nor John had written in ages. For whatever reason, Sherlock had not been able to bring himself to sit down and write the simplest card or letter.

And now there was this unwelcome slip of newspaper. His mouth dry, he unfolded the square and read it.

_Miss Mary Morstan, daughter of the late Mr. George Morstan and the late Mrs. Anne Morstan, and Capt. John H. Watson, son of the late Dr. James Watson and Mrs. Emily Watson, were joined in marriage on Sept. 21 in Bombay, India. The bride wore a white satin beaded gown, and her veil was held in place with a wreath of orange blossoms and pearls. The groom is a physician with the Royal Army Medical Corps, 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, stationed in Bombay._

The paper fluttered to Sherlock’s desk. He sat in his chair, trying to remember how to breathe.

 

** 1927 **

**January 1927**

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I've been meaning to write for a long time, and now I finally have a private moment to do so. I don't know the best way to do this, so I'll come right to the point._

_Mary and I were married in September. I meant to write to you when we got engaged last year, but I just let time go by. I'm sorry for not letting you know earlier. I truly am._

_Although you and I made no promises, I feel that I owe you an explanation. I was so busy for so long that I didn't have time for anything except being a doctor and a soldier. And then it slowly crept into me, a deep loneliness. I felt empty. When I met Mary, it was like throwing open the curtains in a dark room. I finally remembered what it was like to feel warm in another person’s presence. I missed that. Maybe I need it. Maybe I'm a weak man who’s no good at being alone._

_She's a wonderful woman and she makes me happy. I hope I make her happy, too._

_But most of all, Sherlock, I want you to be happy._

_I've included below a new address where I can be reached. We’re being transferred to Lahore next month to relieve a unit currently posted there. There is political tension in the region, but Mary is undaunted and will be coming with me._

_If you don't write, I’ll understand._

_I wish you the best, always, and I’ll remember our summer, always._

_John_

 

**May 1927**

_Dear John,_

_Forgive the tardiness of this letter. My final term was much more demanding than I expected, so I'm very late in offering my congratulations to you and your new wife. Although I find the institution of marriage archaic, I wish you both happiness._

_I’m finally done with my studies. I’ve earned my graduate degree and am writing this whilst slowly packing up my rooms, taking frequent breaks to rest my leg. One of the other students down the hall has a bull terrier that decided to bite my ankle a few weeks ago. I was laid up in bed for nearly 10 days, surrounded by papers as I finalized my thesis._

_Victor, the fellow who owns the dog, apologized profusely and kept bringing me all sorts of unnecessary sweets and cigarettes and lingered around to keep me company. He's a decent bloke, alarmingly full of energy. I never really spoke with him before. Turns out we have more in common than I originally assumed. He’s invited me to his father’s place in Norfolk for a month’s vacation this summer. I believe I’ll go._

_Afterwards, I'm headed to London. I'll look for a flat, but beyond that my future is still uncertain. I don't see myself in a typical profession. I’ve known for a long time that I don't quite fit in anywhere, so I may very well have to invent my own path._

_In some ways I envy you. You've found your place in the world, gaining a respectable profession and now a companion. I doubt the world will accommodate me as generously. But then, I doubt I deserve it._

_Ignore me. I'm being morbid. I’m exhausted and not entirely well. I’m relieved to be done with university, and yet I have no plans for what comes next. I'm not sure if it's terrifying or exhilarating._

_Either way, it's time I've moved on._

_\- SH_

_**End of Part 2** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so take a deep breath... we're now in the Cave of Despair, which leads to the Forest of Pining. And after that, I'm happy to say, is the Golden Lake of Reunion. 
> 
> In case you didn't know, Victor Trevor's dog biting Sherlock's ankle and the month-long holiday together is ACD canon ('The Adventure of the Gloria Scott'), as is, of course, John marrying Mary Morstan. I took the description of Mary's wedding dress from a real 1920s wedding announcement in a local newspaper. I wish there had been a photo of it.
> 
> Thanks again for your patience as I slowly post, and here's a thousand roses for you for following along!
> 
> Many thanks to saturn_in_retrograde for helping to wrestle these chapters into shape.


	23. Part 3: London

_** Summer 1928 ** _

Sherlock woke from a fitful sleep, the air too warm, the bedroom still unfamiliar. He lifted his watch from the side table, squinting at the face to read the time. Nearly 2:30 in the morning.

He stared at the ceiling, watching the lights of a passing motor car roam across the plaster. Victor breathed evenly beside him, an arm thrown above his head, naked and lost in sleep.

Sherlock had moved into the rented flat several days ago. With Victor’s help, they had carried the heaviest items up a flight of stairs into the partially furnished rooms. Victor had insisted that he set up the bedroom first, which, in hindsight, had been an excellent idea. They had made good use of the large bed despite their aching backs and tired legs, their lean bodies slowly entwining in the shadowy room.

The flat was in a central London location and owned by a sweet and slyly libertine landlady, Mrs. Hudson. He had helped her with a problematic ex-husband, and in exchange she had reduced the monthly rent. She lived downstairs, sometimes popped in with tea, and said nothing about Victor’s odd visiting hours.

Ensuring that Mrs. Hudson’s unpleasant ex-husband received a long prison sentence was just one in a string of unconventional jobs he had fallen into during the past year. Mycroft had paid him handsomely to complete a number of tasks that required “leg work,” as Mycroft had put it disdainfully. His observational skills, increasingly dubious knowledge of London’s underworld, and boxing abilities were all proving to be of value as he stitched together something resembling a career.

Sherlock ran a hand over his eyes. He couldn't sleep. As quietly as possible, he eased out of bed and stood near the open window, letting the faint breeze fan over his bare skin. He craved a cigarette but resisted, vaguely thinking he should cut back his smoking habit. He plucked up a blue dressing gown slung over a chair and slipped it on, tying it loosely at his waist.

He entered the short hallway, passed by the bathroom, walked through the kitchen and into the sitting room. Maybe he would do some unpacking until he got tired.

He flicked on a lamp and wove his way among half-emptied boxes, side-stepping piles of clutter and stacks of papers that covered the floor, finally reaching the desk littered with a microscope and numerous bottles of chemicals.

He paused for a moment, assessing the room. Light from the street lamps below glowed through the three arched windows that lined one wall of the sitting room, long curtains hanging to the red wool rug. A sofa and low table lined another wall, a fireplace and ornately carved mantle opposite.

Sherlock tapped his chin. Chairs. He could use two comfortable chairs near the fireplace. Maybe some prints for the walls. But first he would have to clear out the boxes. He dipped a hand into an open carton and lifted out a stack of books, barely glancing at their spines before slotting them into a sturdy bookshelf that flanked the fireplace.

He worked through several boxes, the arrangement of the books haphazard at best. He would be able to find what he wanted easily enough; his memory was uncannily detailed. He added another large handful of volumes to the shelf, then bent down to retrieve more.

When his fingers brushed across the book with the red cloth cover, his gut tightened. He lifted the book out gingerly, as if it were a bomb that might detonate with the slightest movement. He held it, his mouth drawn down, his fingertips finding the gap in the pages where the photographs from his summer with John were wedged.

He hadn't looked at them in a very long time. He wasn't sure if he wanted to do so now. He had locked that part of his life in the past, buried the pain, burned the letter that had come from John six months ago without reading it.

A hand on his arm startled him out of his thoughts.

“Sorry,” Victor apologized, his voice sleepy. “What are you doing up?”

Sherlock pushed the book onto the shelf. “Can't sleep.”

“Hmm,” Victor draped himself around Sherlock’s back, tucking his chin on his shoulder. “Come to bed. I’ll rub your back.” His hands slid below Sherlock’s waist, roaming beneath the dressing gown. “Or whatever else you might like.”

Sherlock felt himself responding to Victor’s touch, his eyes drifting closed. Victor was a welcome distraction, an easy companion. He traveled frequently on behalf of his father’s business and had his own flat, their paths intersecting for an evening or a weekend. They enjoyed each other's company, never casting too far into the future.

He was fond of Victor but would not call it love. That was a word he vowed never to use again. Their arrangement was simple and agreeable, and it was enough.

He let Victor to lead him back to bed, his mouth and fingers stroking him into a hazy state, lulling his agitated mind, until he eventually found sleep again.

 

_** Summer 1930 ** _

John remained hunkered in the train compartment, letting the other passengers push and shove their way out onto the platform. Through the grimy window he watched couples reunite, friends warmly greet each other, businessmen and workers hurrying on to their next destination.

When the crowd had thinned, he stood up, leaning a hand against the seat for support. He fumbled for his cane, cursing his bad leg, and hoisted his valise from the overhead rack. He limped to the steps and eased his way down to the platform, looking for a porter to help collect his trunk.

As he waited, he gazed around the station, the world he once knew now unfamiliar. Seven years had passed since he had last set foot here. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He flexed his left hand, trying to calm the tremor that rippled through it. London. His new home. Like so many other lost souls, he hadn't known where else to go.

 

*************************

Sherlock took a last drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt aside before slipping through a back door of the hospital. He knew the maze of basement hallways by heart, easily finding his way to the morgue.

His work frequently brought him to St. Bart's Hospital, sometimes to question the living, more often to inspect the dead. He had found a niche as a consulting detective, a profession he'd invented himself.

He was working almost constantly now, both for private clients and for Scotland Yard, and occasionally Mycroft, investigating burglaries, affairs, kidnappings, extortion, murder -- the full gamut of unsavory human behavior.

He was gaining a reputation for solving crimes that had stymied the police, and his name was beginning to appear in the papers, a fact Mrs. Hudson enjoyed pointing out whenever she brought up tea.

He pulled open the double doors of the morgue and walked in authoritatively, ignoring the antiseptic odor and tags hanging off stiff toes. He made a beeline to a small figure hunched over a stainless steel table.

“Good afternoon, Molly. I need a liver.”

Sherlock often visited Molly now that she worked as a pathologist at St. Bart’s. She provided him with various specimens and let him examine corpses for clues, and he had subsequently charmed a few of her colleagues into letting him use the laboratory for some advanced experiments and analyses.

Molly looked up from the body she was working on and sighed, her scalpel pausing. “We've talked about this, remember?”

“But it's for scientific purposes.”

Molly was unmoved. “If someone has deeded their body to science, I can help you. But I don't have anything today.”

Sherlock pouted to show Molly how disappointed he was. He never quite understood her complicated moral code regarding the dead. What use could organs possibly be once their host was deceased? He glanced at the body on the table. “What about this one?”

Molly gave him a stern look.

“Fine. But ring me up as soon as something comes in. It's for a case.”

Interest flickered in Molly's eyes. “What kind of case?”

“Suspected murder. Stabbing with an unidentified weapon. I need to test a theory.”

“You’re going to make the police look incompetent again, aren't you?”

“They _are_ incompetent. That's why Detective Inspector Lestrade comes to me for help.”

Molly toyed with the scalpel, smiling. “He comes here, too, sometimes. To see things. The bodies, I mean. He's nice.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Molly, noting the way her cheeks flushed. “He's recently divorced, you know. You might stand a chance.”

She quickly looked down, flustered. “That's not -- I didn't mean -- oh, just go away.”

He smirked, turning to leave, then pivoted back on his heel. “One more favor.”

Molly furrowed her brow. “Now what?”

“If any stabbing victims come in, let me know. I'd like to examine the wounds.”

“You owe me a coffee for all this.”

“Of course. But not today.”

He turned and walked away, already thinking about a stop at the butcher shop, when the door swung open. He stepped aside and nodded briefly at the familiar face. It was Mike Stamford, one of the physicians who allowed him access to the hospital lab. They were on friendly terms, though not precisely friends. “Mike,” he acknowledged.

“Ah, Sherlock.” Mike’s round face always made him seem cheerful. He waved a jaunty hand at Molly. “Dr. Hooper.” He turned back to Sherlock. “Say, I was wondering. You don't happen to know of anyone looking for a flatmate, do you? Asking for a friend who needs a place.”

Sherlock didn't have time for small talk. “No, sorry.”

“Oh, I just thought you might have heard of something. It's always difficult to find an affordable flat in London. Not to mention trying to find work. I was just reading this morning that more than 2 million are unemployed, and it's expected to go higher. Terrible, isn't it?”

“Yes, but it's excellent for crime.” Sherlock put a hand on the door when he heard Molly's voice pipe up.

“What about that spare bedroom of yours, Sherlock?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. _Molly._ He shot an irritated glance back at her, and she returned his gaze, as smug as the cat who ate the cream. Mike was looking at him expectantly.

“It's really not suitable. Small, shabby… Besides, I'm disagreeable, up at all hours... who'd want me for a flatmate?”

Mike’s mouth turned up in amusement. “That's exactly what my friend said.”

Sherlock really wanted the conversation to end. He glanced at his watch. “Must dash. Good luck.” He swept through the door and down the hallway without waiting for a response.

The last thing he wanted was someone else underfoot. He was perfectly content with his solitude. Everything was how he liked it -- his things remained where he put them, his schedule was at his whim, his consumption of certain stimulants and narcotics was his own business. He did not need people meddling with his life.

He was cautious with friendships, and utterly finished with romantic relationships. Victor had moved on, the family business taking more and more of his time and attention. The split was amicable and inevitable, but it still left a raw mark. Getting involved was a mistake, just as Mycroft had warned all those years ago. He would never again let his heart rule his head.

He was better off being alone. It was much more conducive to work, and work was all that mattered now.

 


	24. Chapter 24

**1930**

The autumn rain pattered against the window as Sherlock scowled at Mycroft, displeased, his fingers tapping against the arm of the leather chair. Mycroft sat calmly across from him, his hands folded in his lap.

“Mummy agrees,” Mycroft explained patiently. “She's looked at the numbers as well, and we all must tighten our belts. You’ll simply have to make do with a smaller allowance from now on.”

“That's really not convenient.”

“Convenient? The world economy is in a shambles. You do keep up with the news, don't you?”

Sherlock frowned. He generally ignored anything that wasn't crime-related, but he was vaguely aware of the worldwide financial crisis.

Mycroft glanced pointedly around the messy flat. “Although I'm not sure what you're spending your money on…”

“A man needs suitable attire,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Oh, I agree.” Mycroft smoothed his silk tie. “But I believe even you can struggle by with fewer clothes.”

“Cabs are expensive. And information isn't cheap.”

“Walk more. And your grubby little network of informants will just have to accept a lower rate as well. In short, brother dear, adjust your standard of living.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Sherlock slumped in his chair. He rarely paid attention to money. The fees he charged for his consulting services were an afterthought, his banking habits a hasty series of deposits and withdrawals that he never really bothered to track. He was simply used to having ample funds.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Raise your fees. Rein in your spending. I don't know, get a flatmate.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft in disbelief. “You're joking.”

The corner of Mycroft's thin mouth curved up. “It is an amusing thought.”

“I should charge _you_ more for all the work I do on your behalf.”

Mycroft shrugged, unperturbed. “Now that you mention it, how is the latest job coming along?”

“Fine. You’ll have a name within the week. I have people watching the house around the clock.”

“Good.”

Sherlock noticed Mycroft's eyes traveling along the wall above the sofa that was covered with maps, notes, clippings, and photographs for a different case he was working on.

“Intriguing methodology,” Mycroft commented.

“It helps me think, make connections.”

They discussed the merits of his system and the details of the case until Mycroft looked at his watch.

“I have a meeting, so I'll be going.” He gathered his attaché case and headed to the door. “Think about what we discussed. It would behoove you to pay more attention to your finances.”

“Boring.”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “You're 27 years old, Sherlock. It's time you grew up.” He opened his mouth, about to say more, then resisted. He shook his head and vanished down the stairs.

Sherlock turned back to the case wall. For a few moments, Mycroft's companionship had been almost welcome. It was invigorating to discuss a case with someone else, bouncing off ideas and considering new angles. Maybe having a flatmate wouldn't be so terrible…

He scoffed at himself. It was a ridiculous idea. People were idiots. He grabbed a folder of papers and retreated to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. An empty tea tin and sink full of dirty dishes greeted him.

He groaned inwardly. A little voice in his head suggested that a roommate could be pressed into sharing housework and the shopping. Maybe it would be worth exploring the idea…

He went to his desk and unearthed a small black address book, then picked up the telephone, rushing through directives so he couldn't change his mind.

“Yes, hello, Stamford. This is Sherlock Holmes. About that friend of yours looking for a flatshare -- send him round tomorrow evening at seven. Have him ask for the landlady, Mrs. Hudson. She can show him around and answer any questions. The address is 221b Baker Street.”

 

*******************

John stood on the step in front of the heavy black door, hesitating. He held the note from Mike Stamford that a messenger boy had delivered to his bedsit that morning and doubled-checked the address scrawled on the paper against the numbers tacked onto the lacquered wood. He had a hard time believing an affordable flat could be found in this part of the city.

Still, he might as well have a look now that he was here. He shifted his cane and rapped the brass knocker, drawing his shoulders up and back while he waited. The door soon was opened by a spritely older woman wearing a floral print dress, red lipstick brightening her mouth.

“Can I help you?”

“Good evening. I'm inquiring about a room for let. I was told to ask for Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, of course. Come in, come in. I'm Mrs. Hudson.”

John stepped over the threshold and briefly shook her hand. “John Watson.”

“Pleased to meet you. Have you recently moved to London?”

“I’ve been here a few months. Just getting resettled.” He didn’t elaborate, not wanting to go into details that would lead to unwanted questions.

“Well, now,” Mrs. Hudson said, “I’ll show you the room that would be yours first, then the main flat.”

John saw her glance at his cane.

“Will you be alright with the stairs? There are quite a few.”

He felt himself bristle, even though he knew she meant well. “I can manage.”

She led the way up the staircase, chatting about her bad hip and how it acted up whenever it rained. John hated the sound of his uneven gait on the steps, glad for the respite as they paused on the landing before continuing up another flight of stairs.

“Here we are.” Mrs Hudson opened the door, allowing John to step inside. “It's snug, but the window lets in good light.”

A double bed covered with a white duvet filled a corner of the room. A wardrobe took up another wall, and a small desk and chair were placed beneath the window. John crossed over to peer outside at a few tree tops and the windows of the building opposite. It was a pleasant view.

A simple rug warmed the floor, while the ceiling sloped on one side where the roofline ran. The room was much cozier than the dark and depressing bedsit he was currently living in.

“It's very nice,” John said.

Mrs. Hudson looked pleased. “What kind of work do you do, Mr. Watson?”

Now he had to say something. “I was in the army until just recently. Stationed in India. I was a doctor.”

“Oh, how exciting. But you don't practice medicine anymore?”

“I was injured. Can't really trust my hands.” He smiled ruefully. “Or my leg.”

Her eyes filled with sympathy. “That's a shame. I'm so sorry.”

John tamped down the sudden surge of emotions that threatened to break through his composure. He couldn't talk about India without getting shaky, couldn't bear to hear the words _I'm so sorry_ without becoming irrationally angry. He'd heard the phrase far too often until it became meaningless and maddening. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, the army patched me up and invalided me back to England. A warm bed and a clean room is all I'm looking for at the moment.”

Mrs. Hudson patted his arm. “You'd be very welcome here, dear. Now, why don't we have a peek at the rooms you'd be sharing?”

John nodded stiffly. They made their way back down the stairs to another door that Mrs. Hudson opened. She entered first, flicking on a lamp in the gathering dusk. John looked around as Mrs. Hudson plumped a pillow and straightened a curtain, then fussed with a little statue of a dog on a bookshelf.

The sitting room was cluttered but homey, the shelves lined with an odd mix of artifacts and books. Two inviting chairs faced the fireplace, a bizarre patchwork of photos and papers covered the wall behind the sofa.

“There's a full kitchen, and the bath is just down the hallway, along with the other bedroom,” she explained.

John only nodded, still fascinated by the strange array of of items in every nook and cranny. Bats and botanical prints and a display case of bullets.

“It's a bit like a museum, isn't it?” Mrs. Hudson ventured. “The gentleman who lives here is, er--” she paused, searching diplomatically for the right phrase, “a free thinker.”

_Eccentric_ was the word that came to John's mind.

“There's a cafe next door and a grocer just around the corner,” she added as John glanced into the kitchen and down the hallway. The bedroom door was closed.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked.

John looked around once more. He owned very little, so was not concerned about the lack of space for his things. “This could do nicely.”

“We could make a pot of tea and discuss the terms, if you’d like.”

John grudgingly admired how she could blend motherliness and business, but had a question. “What about the other bloke? Shouldn't we meet?”

Mrs. Hudson waved her hand. “He won't be home for hours. He said I could decide, and I think you two will manage fine.”

John wasn't sure what she meant by manage, and he frowned a little. Doubt nagged at him, but he really didn't want this opportunity to slip by. Besides, he'd lived and worked with all types of men in the army in much closer quarters. The real deciding factor would be if he could afford the rent. He rubbed his forehead, uncertain what to do. His leg was starting to throb and his head hurt.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to notice his discomfort. “Why don't you have a seat? I’ll make the tea and then we’ll chat. Take some more time to get a feel for the place.”

Mrs. Hudson bustled off to the kitchen and John limped toward the fireplace, choosing to sit in the overstuffed chair covered with red fabric. He settled into the cushion with a grunt, glad to take the weight off his leg. He was surprised at how easily Mrs. Hudson was moving around the kitchen. Apparently she spent a good deal of time in the flat and knew just where the tea cups and kettle were.

He gazed around the room again, noticing a music stand, a magnifying glass, and a grinning human skull on the mantle. He stared at it, wondering if it was real. It certainly looked convincing. He couldn't begin to imagine what his potential flatmate did for a living based on the oddities on display. He continued to note little details until Mrs. Hudson carried in a tray and set it on a side table.

“Now,” she said taking a seat in the chair opposite and adjusting the hem of her dress. “Let’s talk about rent.”

To John's immense relief, the number she named fell into the range of what he could afford. “That would be acceptable,” he managed to say, amazed to find himself quite possibly committing to a flatshare with a roommate he'd never met.

He accepted the cup of tea Mrs. Hudson handed him as she launched into the rules for tenants.

“The rent’s due first day of the month. No smoking inside, or if you must sneak one, do it by an open window. No parties -- unless you invite me, of course,” she winked, surprising John again. “I don't mind if you have overnight visitors, if you know what I mean. That's not my business. Live and let live, I say. Oh, and no pets, they make me sneeze.” She tapped her chin. “Let’s see. Did I forget anything?”

“No body parts in the icebox.”

John jumped, sloshing tea over the rim of his cup, startled by the deep voice that reverberated in the air behind him. He hadn't heard anyone on the stairs or at the door downstairs. His nerves still raw from his last months in the army, he looked at Mrs. Hudson in alarm, but she was smiling. John struggled to turn around in the high-backed chair to face whoever had spoken.

His eyes landed on a tall figure in a dark coat. The blood drained from John's face, his mind going numb in shock. _Impossible._ The tea cup and saucer slipped from his fingers, the fine china tumbling to the floor, shattering.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuuunnnnnn. Who could the mysterious man standing behind John be??? Stay tuned for the next exciting installment! 
> 
> As a side note, I finally broke the 50k word mark with this posting, so I'm doing a little "woo hoo I made it!" dance right now. Thank you all for reading along!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up: This chapter contains minor character death, minor violence, and a few references to suicidal thoughts.

_Sherlock. It couldn't be._ John rose stiffly from his chair, staring wordlessly at the apparition from his past, certain he had finally lost his mind. He was dimly aware of Mrs. Hudson kneeling on the floor, dabbing at the spilled tea with a towel.

“You gave Dr. Watson here such a fright,” she chided the man in the dark coat. “You said you were going to be out late.” She glanced up, pausing, the strained silence intensifying. “Why, you both look like you've seen a ghost. Sherlock, what's going on?”

John felt lightheaded, unable to do anything but stare. It really was him. _Sherlock._ His stunning eyes were as sharp and searching as he remembered, the youthful bloom of his face grown more angular and striking, his shoulders broader, his presence riveting. The lanky young student he'd known all those years ago was now this sinewy man whose intensity smoldered like dark embers, ready to catch fire.

As Sherlock looked back at him, John could only guess how much he himself had changed. Clutching a cane, his shoulders squared defensively against the world, his eyes wary, his face hardened, his body scarred.

“We knew each other,” Sherlock finally answered. He held John's gaze, his expression inscrutable. “A long time ago.”

Sherlock's eyes flicked down to John's left hand, and John reflexively curled his fingers into his palm, hiding the ring he wore.

“Well, imagine that,” Mrs. Hudson remarked lightly, picking up the broken bits of china and placing them in the towel. “In all of London, you two meet again like this. It must be fate.”

“No, it's Mike Stamford.” Sherlock made no move to take off his coat. He scrutinized John. “You knew him at university, I gather.”

John had forgotten how quickly Sherlock made leaps in logic, and already felt three steps behind. Somehow Sherlock and Mike had met. “Mike and I were the same year at uni. How do you know him?”

“I do some work at St. Bart's Hospital. He mentioned he had a friend looking for a flatshare. I didn't anticipate this.”

They fell silent again, and Mrs. Hudson glanced between them. “Why don't I let you two catch up? I’ll just be downstairs. Let me know what you'd like to do about the room before you go, alright Dr. Watson?”

John struggled to find his voice. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Mrs. Hudson whisked from the flat, leaving them alone. Sherlock slowly removed his coat and hung it on a peg behind the door.

John stood with his back straight, waiting, watching how carefully Sherlock moved, his body held tightly as if he was afraid that some other delicate object in the room might shatter.

Sherlock broke the silence. “When did you arrive back?”

“A few months ago.”

Sherlock nodded, circling to the other side of the room to pull back the curtains and look down at the street through the window.

John waited uncertainly for Sherlock to say more, but he added nothing. John huffed out an uncomfortable laugh, rubbing his temple. “Look, this is extraordinary, don't you think? Meeting again like this?”

Sherlock kept his back to John, his voice cold. “Improbable but not impossible.”

Rebuffed, John chewed his bottom lip, wondering what he should do. They had fallen out of touch more than two years ago, his letters to Sherlock remaining unanswered. Despite his better judgment, he'd continued writing anyway, hoping to maintain a thread of connection.

When his life was upended and the darkness in him grew, his service revolver a constant tempting offer of escape, he finally stopped the one-sided correspondence, instead writing down desperate ramblings in a private journal.

John shook his head to clear it, not wanting to dwell on those thoughts. He was here, in the same room as Sherlock, so close he could touch him if he took a few steps forward. After years of thinking about him, wondering where he was, what he was doing, who he was with, they were together. He wanted to say something, to reach out and break this awkward silence. He cleared his throat. “It's good to see you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's shoulders tensed, and he finally turned around to look at him. “How’s your wife?”

The question landed like a punch to the face. John stared at him in shock. “I wrote to you. I told you.”

“I didn't open your letters.” A flash of cruelty swept across Sherlock's face. “I burned them.”

John sank into the armchair, feeling ill, stung by the spite in Sherlock's voice. He’d been a fool to think that Sherlock would read the letters. Sherlock had no idea what had happened, what he'd been through. He dropped his eyes to the rug, wracked with returning guilt and self-loathing, not wanting to dredge up the past again. He took a few steadying breaths.

“Mary died nearly two years ago. Pneumonia,” he forced himself to say. “She's buried in Lahore.” He kept his eyes on the floor, not wanting to see Sherlock's reaction. Pity. Sympathy. Or maybe more contempt.

There was a long silence. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock finally said.

“I couldn't save her.” John spoke almost to himself, remembering the long vigil by her bed, feeling powerless to help as she slipped away. “I was the senior physician and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.”

Sherlock moved closer, standing behind the leather chair. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “When I saw your ring, I assumed you were merely separated. I didn't think…” he trailed off.

John gazed at the gold band he still wore on his finger. To remove it seemed disloyal. Mary had had no other family. Taking it off would be a step closer to forgetting her, and if no one remembered her, she would vanish forever. He owed her this small token to her memory.

“Don't you want to know the rest of it?” John lifted his eyes to Sherlock, challenging him. “Or can you tell just by looking at me?”

Sherlock's expression was somber. “You were injured. But not in your leg, despite what the cane implies.”

John smiled tightly. “Very good. The pain is all in my head, they tell me. But the bullet that went through my shoulder was real enough.”

Sherlock edged around the chair and sat down. “What happened?”

John looked away again, keeping his focus on the skull on the mantle. “After Mary died, I requested a transfer. I asked to be sent to the North West Frontier. There had been recent skirmishes there, troubles along the border. I didn't care. I welcomed it. I hoped it would take my mind off my misery. Maybe end it for me.”

He gripped the top of his cane, regretting his last words, wishing he hadn't revealed so much. But it was too late to take it back. He swallowed. “I was sent to a post near the Khyber Pass. Several units in the area were assigned to construct roads through territory that was heavily disputed. There were tribal snipers in the mountains, bloody good marksmen. Then the rebellion started brewing … attacks occurred all along the border … more troops were brought in.”

John paused, remembering. “One day, maybe eight months into my post, I was called out to an accident at a construction site. A soldier had been working on some machinery and slipped. His leg got caught in the gears, mangled up to the knee. He was just a young kid, covered in blood, unconscious … I was trying to control the bleeding, trying to keep his mates calm… and then the shooting started. It was complete chaos. I shielded the boy as best I could. Everyone was scrambling for cover, officers screaming orders over the gunfire… and suddenly I was hit.”

John hunched in his chair, recalling the searing pain in his left shoulder, the shock of realizing what had happened, the struggle to not pass out.

“I remember thinking I had to stay awake to take care of that boy. But I couldn't do it. I blacked out.” John shook his head slowly. “When I came to, I was back at the post, bandaged up. We lost three men.”

Sherlock’s fingers were steepled over his mouth, his eyes on John. “And the boy?”

“He didn't make it. He lost too much blood.” John rubbed his palm along his thigh, agitated. “I couldn't save him, either.” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “So maybe it's all for the best that I can't control the tremor in my hand or the pain in my leg. I’m not fit to be a doctor.”

Sherlock lowered his hands from his mouth. “No one can save every patient.”

John said nothing. He'd been through all that with the army psychiatrist. Useless exercises that did nothing to dispel the dark thoughts from his mind or the nightmares that tormented him. He'd failed as a physician, a soldier, a husband. A lover. He met Sherlock's gaze, then glanced away.

He should go. This would be a mistake, trying to salvage a remnant of friendship from their past. Sherlock had made it clear long ago that he wanted nothing to do with him. And John didn't blame him.

He stood up, leaning heavily on his cane. “Tell Mrs. Hudson I won't be taking the room. Best of luck, Sherlock.”

He turned and stalked to the door without waiting for Sherlock to reply. He focused on quickly descending the stairs, just wanting to get out onto the pavement again and walk away from this flat and all the memories roiling up in it.

His hand curved around the door handle.

“John,” Sherlock called down to him from the top of the landing, “wait.”

John ignored him, pulling open the heavy door and limping into the night.

 

******************

Sherlock stared down at the empty entryway where John had been standing moments before. His fingers were gripped tightly around the bannister, his knuckles white. He debated rushing after John but decided against it, instead returning to the sitting room to pace.

Nothing could have prepared him to see John again. His nerves were frayed and his head hurt from the immense effort it had taken to appear calm and unphased. In actuality, his emotions had been thrown into turmoil at the sight of him.

John, wounded but stubbornly proud, his eyes older than his years, his hair hinting at silver at the temples, his face rugged and more handsome with the passing years.

He chastised himself for burning John's letters. He could remember each one, thrown into the fireplace or curling over the flame of a candle, blackened bits dropping into an ashtray. Their destruction had brought temporary satisfaction, but there was always a lingering question at the back of his mind, wondering what John had written.

Had he opened them, he would have known about Mary's death and John's injury. But what would he have done with that knowledge? How would it have changed anything?

He stopped by the window again, gazing down on the pavement, half hoping to catch a glimpse of John returning. Nothing moved in the pools of lamplight.

Sherlock ached with confusion, not knowing what to feel. For so long, he had avoided putting a name to the thoughts and memories that occasionally surfaced, burying them with work and syringes and violin music.

_John._

He hated him. Worried about him. Wanted to forgive him. Wished he'd never come back. Wanted him to stay. He sifted through a thousand different shades of emotion, none of them indifference.

 

****************************************************

Sherlock scanned the room numbers as he roamed down the dim hallway that smelled unpleasantly of fried potatoes and stale cigarette smoke. The sounds of crude laughter and a wailing baby floated through the thin walls, causing Sherlock to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

He finally located the room he was looking for and stopped in front of the door. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. His idea was ill-formed, not thought through, but his feet had carried him to this tatty rooming house anyway.

He raised his hand and rapped sharply on the wood with his knuckles, then waited.

It seemed like an eternity before he heard a faint shuffle of footsteps and a suspicious voice. “Who is it?”

“It's me. Sherlock.”

There was an insufferably long pause, but at last a deadbolt clicked and the door cracked open. John peered at him without saying anything, then turned back into the room, letting the door swing open wider on its own.

Sherlock was dubious about this visit, but ventured past the door anyway, closing it behind him. John took a seat in a chair by the table while Sherlock glanced around at the sparse bed sit.

Everything in the small space was neat, the bed made, an apple, notebook, and pen lined up on the tabletop. But there was nothing personal on display -- no photos or mementos, no colorful quilt on the bed or potted plant in the window.

He turned his gaze onto John. He was unshaven and looked like he hadn't slept since he'd seen him last night. Sherlock remained standing, not seeing another chair to sit in.

“How did you find me?” John asked wearily.

Sherlock handed him one of his business cards. “It's my specialty.”

John read the card. “Consulting detective…”

“Although in this case I merely telephoned Mike Stamford for your address. Not terribly difficult.”

A ghost of a smile flitted over John's face, then disappeared. He placed the card to the side and met Sherlock's eyes. “Why are you here?”

John clearly was not in the mood for small talk, so he would cut right to the matter. “Yesterday, I was caught off guard. It was something of a shock to see you again. I may have been… unwelcoming.”

John gave a noncommittal shrug that seemed to indicate acceptance of Sherlock's indirect apology. He stood up and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, gesturing for Sherlock to take the chair.

Sherlock sat down and crossed one leg over the other. He regarded John for a long moment, gauging his willingness to talk. Above them, the muffled shouts of a couple arguing filtered through the ceiling.

“Why come to the cesspool of London?” Sherlock finally asked. “Why not go home to recuperate?”

“There’s no home to go back to. My mother passed away just over a year ago from a heart condition. Aunt Helen's gone, too. That just leaves my sister, and we don't get along.” John looked at his hands. “She wants to sell our parents’ house. I don't care. She can keep the money.”

Sherlock felt another pang of guilt, wondering if John had written to him about these losses. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother and aunt.”

John nodded, looking fatigued. “Your parents -- are they well?”

“Oh, they're lively as ever, if a bit slower. Father still keeps his bees and Mother publishes the occasional article on mathematics.”

“And Mycroft?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The same. But worse.”

“Molly Hooper. Do you ever hear from her?”

Sherlock told him about Molly's job at the hospital and how he often saw her in the course of his work.

“Small world,” John mused.

“It really isn't.” Sherlock spoke the words before he could censor himself. “India was a universe away.”

John looked at him steadily, unamused. “Time and distance change people. Surely you've changed in seven years.”

“Oh, I’ve reinvented myself,” Sherlock answered glibly, avoiding the deeper question. He quickly changed the subject. “But I'm not here to talk about the past. I have a business proposition.”

John’s mouth tightened, and Sherlock could tell he was irked by his evasiveness. He pushed on with his proposal anyway. “Given the dire financial times, I need a flatmate to split the rent, and you need a room. Unless you want to stay in this charming place, of course.”

John's jaw twitched.

“Also,” Sherlock continued, “you need a job, and I could use an assistant with medical knowledge. Perhaps we could come to an arrangement to further reduce your rent in exchange for your services.”

John crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Helping to solve crimes. Estimating time of death, suggesting cause of death, providing your general expertise in disease and injury. Skill with a revolver wouldn't hurt, either.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Could be.”

Sherlock waited, watching John as he weighed the offer.

“I don't care for the term ‘assistant,’” John finally said.

“Fine, then. Colleague.”

Another long pause. “I'm not picking up after you or doing your dishes.”

“Of course not. You should know, however, that I play the violin when I'm thinking. And sometimes I don't talk for days.”

“Fine by me.” John met his eyes. “And what about guests? I don't want to be in the way if you have a… special visitor.”

Sherlock held his gaze, reading his meaning. “Strictly clients. I don't socialize.”

“Never?”

“Never.” Sherlock answered firmly. “You're free to do as you wish.”

They stared at each other, silently negotiating the boundaries of their new relationship.

“Alright,” John said, his arms still crossed. “I’m willing to give it a try for a month. If it doesn't work out, I’ll move on.”

“Fair enough.” Sherlock held out his hand to shake on their agreement. Only when John's palm crossed over his did it strike him that this was the first time they'd touched since saying farewell nearly a decade ago. John's skin was rough and warm against his, his grip brief and strong. The contact was over in few seconds.

“Good then, fine.” Sherlock stumbled over his words, quickly rising to his feet. “I’ll let Mrs. Hudson know you’ll take the room, and I’ll ask Mycroft to send a car around for your things at the end of the week. Will that suffice?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock fussed with his coat collar, preparing to go back out into the chilly weather. “Excellent.” He nodded curtly and let himself out the door, wondering if he was mad for suggesting this entire scheme.

It was business, he reminded himself as he walked briskly away, as well as a good deed. John was clearly in a bad spot. And if he could offer a drowning man a branch, why wouldn’t he? In this case, the branch was the lure of danger sweetened with cheap lodging, which he had predicted would appeal to John’s complex nature.

He had calculated John’s reaction correctly. Somewhere in his mind, he wondered if he had judged his own motives as accurately.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're inching ever closer to getting these two back together at long last in Baker Street. They've been apart for only a few chapters, but OMG it feels like a lifetime. 
> 
> For any history buffs out there, I based John's injury on events that happened around 1930 in the North West Territory. I took a lot of liberties, but the British Army was building roads in that area and there were some skirmishes. I also looked at obituaries from the Times of India to figure out what Mary might have died of. Pneumonia actually caused quite a few deaths among younger people. I think I spend more time researching odd bits than writing!


	26. Chapter 26

John laid in bed listening to the drizzle of early morning autumn rain against the window. The sound was peaceful; far different from the shouting neighbors, crying children, and slamming doors at the rooming house. He snuggled deeper under the white duvet in his room tucked under the eaves on Baker Street, still appreciating a comfortable bed after years of cots and nets and scratchy blankets.

Soon he'd get up and make a cup of strong tea and thick slab of jam toast, enjoying a few hours of solitude before Sherlock either stumbled half awake into the kitchen from his bedroom or swept up the stairs with a manic energy that had sustained him through the night.

The month-long trial period of rooming together had come and gone. Over the past few weeks, they'd established a pattern of sharing the limited space of the flat and involving John in Sherlock's work. John didn't -- and couldn't -- go everywhere Sherlock did, given his bad leg, but he had quickly learned what Sherlock did as a consulting detective when he was practically shoved into a cab to race to a crime scene on his first evening after moving into the flat.

John offered his medical opinion when asked, posed what seemed like endless questions, and often felt bewildered and amazed, but found the fast pace and Sherlock's sharp wit to be a tonic for his own mind that had grown dull and bleak.

He was sleeping better and reading the daily paper again, gradually re-engaging with the wider world. When Mrs. Hudson brought up potential clients to confer with Sherlock, John began taking notes to keep track of people's stories, fascinated by their bizarre and mundane complaints that ranged from mischievous ghosts to missing dogs, suspected affairs and arson, to poisonings and stolen paintings.

Sherlock scathingly rejected most clients, but every so often he'd accept a case. John couldn't discern a pattern to which requests for help Sherlock chose over others, but then he didn't really understand much about Sherlock anymore. There really were entire days he went without speaking, and others when he would not shut up. 

Always though, their conversations revolved around work. They talked about motives and opportunity, suspects and theories, but not about the past. The most personal exchanges centered on whose turn it was to do the shopping or polite inquiries about how John’s leg was feeling or if Sherlock had slept well. 

John missed the ease with which they had once conversed. Sherlock had always been brusque, no surprise there, but now there was a carefully maintained distance between them that John didn't know how to overcome. 

He turned onto his side, gazing at the window. He allowed his mind to wander back to that summer long ago, back to the first time he and Sherlock had met. John smiled a little, remembering how ruthlessly Sherlock had assessed his character, instantly annoying and intriguing him. 

He followed the course of memories to the first time they had kissed near the beehives, recalling the salty taste of Sherlock's lips and uncertainty in his eyes, to their first intimate encounters. How passionate their stolen moments together had been, how vulnerable and tender, how eager and hungry for each other, so young, so in love.

John’s fingers played over the soft creases of the sheets. It had been love, he now knew. He had often told himself it was something else -- youthful infatuation, lust -- downplaying the intensity in order to focus on his career. He had convinced himself it was not the kind of relationship that could last, certainly not when it was forbidden and unlawful. 

He had tried to forget -- God, how he had tried -- but failed. Sherlock had always lingered on the edges of his memory, a touchstone of a happier time.

Raindrops streaked down the window pane. John's wounded shoulder ached and he turned again, trying to find a more comfortable spot. What had happened to those daring, ambitious young men they had once been? When had they become so jaded, so guarded? 

The years had brought disappointments, disillusionments, failures, losses, tragedy. He knew his own story well enough, but he wondered about Sherlock. Had there been other relationships? Did he have secrets, losses, regrets? 

He doubted Sherlock would ever reveal his inner thoughts. He was an enigma, shimmering quicksilver that constantly slipped through John’s fingers.

John lifted his hand and watched the slight tremor, his ring glinting in the light. He thought about Mary, remembering her gentle smile, how tiny her waist felt circled in his hands. She had been kind and clever, but had not been complicated.

She was even-tempered and never flustered, which made her an excellent nurse, but sometimes her acceptance of all things -- good and bad -- irked John. When he wanted to rant against politics and incompetence and the bloody long rainy season, Mary would shrug and say there was nothing to be done about it. She would turn back to her embroidery or book and find peace in stitches and words, and he would gnaw on his anger, dissatisfied.

It shamed him to admit that her calmness grated on his nerves at times. She rarely had strong opinions. She never raised her voice. Not even when she found the photos and bundle of letters from Sherlock while cleaning one day. She simply left them on their bed, the ribbon tied neatly around the stack of envelopes. 

The sight had flooded him with unease. Uncertain if it was a pointed rebuke, he tried to mention it to Mary, his words clumsy and nervous, asking why she had moved the letters from his old trunk.

She had been airing out every nook and cranny after the summer’s heat, she had explained. The papers had been getting damp, so she took them out to let them dry. She gazed at him evenly as she spoke, something steely in her eyes he'd never seen before. 

He thought they would argue, that she would accuse him of treachery or deceit. He almost relished the thought of a true fight, of finally seeing Mary lose control, her throat flushed, furious. He wanted to strip down their relationship past niceties to the raw bones, to see what they were really made of.

She did not give him the satisfaction. Instead, she smoothed her skirt and walked away, never mentioning the letters again. He never knew if she had read them, and he did not dare to ask.

Their marriage continued on, a partnership that suited them both. He cared deeply for Mary, but it was not a grand, passionate love. Their intimacy was warm but unimaginative, their home life companionable. He knew he should be grateful and content, and he often was, yet in the dark of night, alone with his thoughts and a swirl of smokey scotch, he sometimes yearned for more.

That was his problem, always wanting something else, never feeling that what he had was enough. He was restless, even though Mary spoke of returning to England in a few years, settling in a nice village, perhaps starting a family. The prospect was more terrifying than appealing, his life narrowing to a predictable pinpoint. While a small part of him sought stability, a larger part craved excitement and the unknown. 

Then Mary fell gravely ill, eliminating the need to choose. He was wracked with guilt, knowing that he had not committed fully to her. He always hoped that he could change and learn to find satisfaction with a quiet, steady life, but something held him back.

Not something, but someone. 

John closed his eyes, unable to ignore what he had kept buried for so long. He understood now that it was possible to love two very different people in two very different ways, one sealed by two years of marriage, the other by a summer of intense passion.

He couldn't tell Sherlock this, knowing how Sherlock felt about him. He'd burned the letters, for Christ’s sake. Sherlock had merely taken pity on him, a broken man with a limp, and given him a place to stay and a chance to start over. 

John rubbed his face and sat up in bed. There was no use ruminating about it all now. There was a full day ahead, and he had plans to visit a few surgeries to inquire about work. He needed to bring in some money to supplement his pension.

He pulled on his clothes and went downstairs to the kitchen to make breakfast. There was no sign of Sherlock.

He skimmed through the previous day's paper while the kettle boiled, then finally sat down with his plate of toast and mug of tea. He took a cautious sip, the tea sweet and strong, followed by a bite of warm bread and berry jam. 

He chewed as he read, delving into a story about a politician’s sordid affair, his mind a million miles away when the door to the flat banged open. John nearly choked on his toast.

“Put on your coat. I've just heard there's been another murder.” Sherlock, wild-eyed, his hair damp and curling from the rain, was standing by the table holding out John's jacket.

“I've only just sat down,” John protested.

“I'll buy you breakfast later. Now hurry. There's a cab waiting.” Sherlock threw the coat in John's direction, then hunted up John's shoes, tossing them to him as well.

“What's the rush?” John grumbled, pulling on a shoe.

“This one’s like the others. Supposed suicide, but it doesn't make sense.”

“So you're saying there's a pattern? The same killer at work?”

“Don't know,” Sherlock stood by the door, holding it open impatiently. “Perhaps if we ever got to the crime scene, I could answer that.”

“Hang on,” John snapped, shoving his foot into the other shoe. He pulled on his coat, cramming a last bite of toast into his mouth. “How do you hear about these things, anyway?”

“I have an extensive network of eyes and ears helping me.”

John looked at him quizzically, following Sherlock down the stairs.

“I'll explain on the way,” Sherlock answered, yanking open the door to the street and sweeping John toward a waiting taxi.

John settled into the back seat, adrenaline pumping, completely unaware that his cane remained leaning against the kitchen table upstairs. 

 

***************

Many hours later, Sherlock made good on his promise to buy John breakfast. They stopped at a small cafe where Sherlock sipped at a cup of coffee and nibbled on a sandwich while John tucked into a shepherd’s pie. 

“Aren't you famished?” John asked between mouthfuls. “You were out all night.”

“I'm fine.” 

John thought he looked tired, his face drawn, but decided against saying anything. Sherlock wouldn't welcome being mothered by him.

Sherlock spooned more sugar into his coffee and stirred it methodically, glancing up. “How's the leg?”

John paused, his fork hovering in midair. He hadn't thought about it all morning. Then it struck him. “My cane --” He glanced around hastily, trying to remember when he’d last seen it.

“Is right where you left it,” Sherlock finished nonchalantly, still stirring. “In the flat.”

“That can't be right.” John tried to recall the day, starting in his room, then the kitchen for breakfast, reading the paper, Sherlock bursting in like a madman and rushing him out the door --

John gaped at Sherlock, realization dawning. He hadn't needed the cane at all once Sherlock swept him up in the case. 

Sherlock looked back at him, a grin starting to spread across his face.

John flexed his leg experimentally, surprised to discover there was no pain. “I can't believe it.” He looked back up in wonder.

Sherlock's grin broke into a smile, and John was suspended for a moment, stunned by the apparent cure of his leg and the pure beauty of Sherlock's expression. It was a genuine smile that reached Sherlock's eyes, sketching dimples and creases over his cheeks.

John found himself smiling back, unable to resist the mirth in Sherlock's eyes. Disbelief, amazement, and relief collided in his chest, swirled up his throat, and escaped in a ragged laugh. 

“You knew that would happen.” John pointed at him accusingly. “You did that on purpose this morning, distracting me like that.”

“Just proving a point.” Sherlock took a sip of coffee, looking very pleased with himself. 

John’s relief was soon tinged with regret and embarrassment. He picked at his food with his fork. “Seems I've wasted months limping around like a fool.”

Sherlock lowered his cup. “The mind is a powerful force. We can't always control it.”

“You can.” John glanced up at him. 

Sherlock wrapped his hands around the cup as if warming them. “No, not always.”

John tilted his head, trying to imagine what could evade Sherlock’s control. He couldn't think of a thing. He looked back down at his plate. “Well… thank you for, you know… tricking me.” He flicked his eyes up, smiling, not knowing how to express his gratitude. 

Sherlock smiled back, his expression soft. “My pleasure.”

They gazed at each other, the afternoon light filtering through a stained glass window that cast a mosaic of gold and red patterns across the tablecloth.

The waiter suddenly appeared at their table to inquire if they needed anything, interrupting the small interlude of connection. Sherlock asked for more coffee, returning to his businesslike demeanor. 

For a moment, the ice had thawed, transporting John back seven summers. For a moment, he recognized the young man he'd fallen in love with, and who may have once loved him in return.


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock fumbled his keys out of his pocket, his fingers cold and clumsy. He managed to unlock the front door and let himself in, the warmth of the entryway a welcome change from outside.

He plodded up the stairs, exhausted, kicked off his shoes and peeled off his coat, tossing it carelessly over a chair. He headed straight to the sofa and fell onto it, curling up on his side so his knees jutted into the back cushions.

He closed his eyes and briefly wondered where John was. Maybe working at the surgery. He filled in for a few hours every now and then, sometimes more if one of the doctors was going to be absent for a longer stretch of time.

He would rest his eyes for a few minutes, then get back to work. Just a short nap was all he needed…

When Sherlock woke hours later, the sitting room was dim and a warm blanket covered him. He blinked sleepily, breathing in the smell of something delicious heating on the stove. He struggled to wake fully, but the coziness of the sofa pulled him back under.

He dozed another half hour, finally waking to the sound of a murmuring conversation by the kitchen door. He recognized John and Mrs. Hudson’s voices but couldn't make out their words. He rose and draped the blanket around his shoulders like a cape, then padded to the kitchen.

“I’m awake. You can stop whispering,” he muttered. He didn't feel right. His throat was scratchy, his head hurt, and every last muscle ached.

“Oh, you look terrible,” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed from where she stood in the doorway.

John turned to look at him and frowned. “You feeling alright?”

“I'm just tired.” He tried to brush off their concern, but wanted nothing more than to go back to bed. He sat down heavily in a kitchen chair.

John stepped closer and laid a cool palm against his forehead. “You're burning up.”

“I'm freezing.”

“You've got the chills,” Mrs. Hudson offered helpfully, crossing over to the stove to stir the simmering pot. “Good thing I brought up some soup for you boys.”

“I'm never sick,” Sherlock protested.

“Well,” John replied, checking his pulse, “you certainly are now. And no wonder, with the hours you've been keeping.”

“Burning the candle at both ends,” Mrs. Hudson added over her shoulder. “Always dashing in and out, never sleeping.”

“Stop it, both of you.” Sherlock meant to add something rude, but couldn't think of anything clever. He laid his head down on the table instead.

“Okay, off to bed with you.” John put a hand under his arm and hoisted him to his feet.

Sherlock allowed John to lead him to his bedroom, Mrs. Hudson following close behind with a glass of water and an an extra blanket.

He crawled under the covers and John flicked on a lamp in the corner.

“Here you go, dear.” Mrs. Hudson set the water on the bedside table and snugged the blanket around his feet.

“Get some more sleep,” John ordered.

“Mmph.” Sherlock was nearly asleep already.

“I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me,” John added, just about to close the door.

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock mumbled, still stubbornly refusing to admit how ill he felt.

John stilled, half hidden in a shadow. “No reason at all.” He shut the door.

Sherlock laid there, drifting, feverish, his mind unbridled. He was well aware of how much he had been working. Almost constantly. And it was very intentional. If he kept himself busy, he didn’t have time to think about anything other than cases.

No time to think about flatmates or burned letters or droning bees or lazy summer afternoons by the lake. No remembering long, slow kisses or wandering hands, tanned forearms and white legs, bodies pressed together, close and hot.

God, he was burning and shivering at the same time, the covers too heavy and too thin. The room seemed to tilt and list, and he closed his eyes to block it out.

He slept unevenly, plagued with garish, nonsensical dreams. A giant glowing rabbit appeared in one, and Victor appeared in another, dressed in a red silk bathrobe and standing by the bedroom window.

Sherlock stretched out his hand at the figure, uncertain. “Victor…? Come to bed. I'm so cold.”

Victor turned to look at him, then moved to the side of the bed. He trailed his fingers over Sherlock's cheek.

“I thought you'd left,” Sherlock murmured, sinking back into the pillow under his touch.

“I came back, remember?” Victor’s fingers played in his hair, smoothing it back from his feverish forehead.

“Don't go…”

“I won't leave. I’ll stay with you.”

The mattress dipped with Victor’s weight as he sat on the edge of the bed. Sherlock could barely open his eyes, but he wanted to see Victor again. He was there, smiling faintly down at him, still stroking his temple.

But then his face changed, going out of focus, melding into someone else. John. It was John touching him.

“It's you,” Sherlock slurred, confused.

“Of course it's me,” John said softly. “Get some rest.”

Sherlock spiraled back into sleep, unsure what was a dream and what was real.

It was late morning when he woke, the fever finally breaking. He gulped down a glass of water and shuffled to the bathroom, feeling as if he'd taken a beating. He refilled his glass with more water and climbed back into bed, his eyes dull and aching.

There was a soft tap at the door and John peeked in. “I thought I heard you moving around. How are you feeling?”

“Like hell warmed over.”

John smiled and presented a mug of tea. “Thought you might like something warm to drink.” He placed it next to the water glass. “May I…?” He gestured toward Sherlock's forehead and Sherlock nodded.

John checked his temperature with his palm and scrutinized his eyes and pallor. “Fever’s down, but you’d best stay in bed today.”

Sherlock reluctantly nodded again and picked up the mug of tea, holding it with two hands. Images from his strange dreams suddenly flashed past, unsettling him as he remembered how Victor had comforted him. Or had it been John?

“Last night… did you happen to check in on me?”

“Well, yes, once or twice.” John moved back toward the door.

“I had some bizarre dreams.”

“That's common enough with fevers.”

“Did I say anything?”

“Um,” John fiddled with the door knob behind his back, “you were mumbling. I couldn't really understand.”

“Oh.” Sherlock hid his face by taking a sip of tea. He was too worn out to determine if John was telling the truth. He had no idea if he'd only dreamed Victor was in his room or if he had somehow mixed John into his fantasy. It had felt so real, the tender stroke of fingers and quiet reassurances.

“I might have heard one thing,” John added after a pause.

Sherlock looked up at him.

“You said ‘Victor.’” John stopped twisting the door knob. “You knew a Victor at university, didn't you?”

Sherlock took a breath, surprised that John would remember such a small detail. “He was a friend.” He toyed with the handle of the mug. “He moved to New York, last I heard. Expanding his family’s business.”

“Hmm. New York.” John glanced into the kitchen. Sherlock could tell he wanted to say something else, which he finally did. “So he was a close friend, was he?”

“We were very close.” Sherlock didn’t know why, but he felt like telling John the truth. “More than just friends.”

“Oh, I see.” John looked down at his hands.

“Is it that surprising?”

“No. Actually, yes. I don’t know. You said you didn’t socialize.”

“Not any more.” Sherlock leaned back against the headboard.

John kept his eyes on his hands. “Because it didn't end well with Victor?”

“It was perfectly civil. His career took him down one road, and I followed another. We parted ways, just like you and I did. History does tend to repeat itself.” He stopped talking, his brain catching up with his rambling mouth. His fingers gripped the cup. “And now I just want to concentrate on _my_ work. That's all that matters, isn't it? One’s work?”

There was a long silence after Sherlock's bitter rant.

John finally spoke, his voice quiet. “Other things do matter. Other _people_ matter.” He looked up, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “I should have said this long ago. I'm sorry.” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry… for all of it.”

Sherlock let his words sink in, an unexpected balm on an old wound. He was too drained to pretend that John's apology meant nothing. He was tired of the strained distance between them, a gulf of past hurts and disappointments that required far too much energy to maintain.

John had never been dishonest with him, had never promised him anything, but he had broken his heart. Sherlock couldn't hold him responsible for that forever. They had been so young, and he had been so inexperienced. It wasn't John's fault that he had inconveniently fallen in love with him.

But here they were, together again, despite all odds. Fate, Mrs. Hudson had called it. Maybe she was right after all. He shouldn't waste the glimmer of a chance to finally mend their relationship.

He cleared his throat a bit, working up the courage to speak. “I’m sorry I cut you off the way I did. I was an arse for burning your letters.”

John nodded, biting his lower lip. “I don't blame you. I didn't mean to complicate things by writing…”

Sherlock dropped his gaze back to his tea. “I know.”

Another silence fell as they both absorbed their confessions. A wall had fallen away, but the atmosphere was too new and delicate to say any more.

“So… I’ll let you sleep,” John said awkwardly, turning to leave.

“Wait --” Sherlock didn't want John to leave, but he didn't know how to continue. “I… I'd have some of Mrs. Hudson’s soup later, if you don't mind.”

The corner of John's mouth lifted a little. “Sure. I'll be here. I’ll check back in on you later.”

“Thank you.”

John closed the door softly and Sherlock slid under the covers, confused and relieved and conflicted, wishing John was next to him, smoothing his forehead gently until he fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ice is finally thawing, and things should soon be warming up. I can't wait!


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock squared off against his opponent, fists raised, feet light, ready to deliver or defend against a blow. John watched from a distance, loitering in the doorway to the gymnasium as the boxers circled each other like sleek tigers in a cage.

They had gone several rounds already, a sheen of sweat across their arms and faces, hair damp, thin vests clinging to their chests. Sherlock's style was wiry, quick, calculated, waiting for his chance to strike while gradually wearing out his opponent.

The other man jabbed, connecting, only to receive a sharp blow to his jaw in return. The man stumbled backward and a satisfied smile crossed Sherlock's now bloody lip.

John stopped his impulse to hurry forward and check Sherlock's injury, instead gripping the bag he held in his right hand. Sherlock would be fine. He clearly relished the refined brutality in the ring, the discipline and technique a far cry from the rough and tumble fist fights John had been in. Still, he would not want to be at the receiving end of Sherlock's long arms and big fists beneath the boxing gloves.

John walked on to the changing room, looking forward to a swim. The pool was located at Sherlock's rather unorthodox club, a facility that, in addition to the gymnasium, also housed a bar, dining room, and gaming room.

Its members were known as a bohemian crowd, wealthy aesthetes, idlers, intellectuals, and libertines, very different from the silent and stuffy club that Mycroft belonged to, apparently. Thanks to Sherlock’s influence, John was allowed access to the club, although he rarely spoke to anyone beyond a brief nod or hello.

Sherlock came to the club to swim or box or brood, one ear always open for pertinent scandals while lingering over cards or billiards. He generally ignored gossip, but a juicy bit of information could prove to be handy later, he claimed.

The water was a cold slap against John's body when he dove into the pool, a bracing shock as he rose for air and curved his arm over his head. He found a rhythm and fell into a steady pace, completing lap after lap, only tangentially aware of a few other swimmers in their lanes.

Swimming cleared his mind and worked his bad shoulder, strengthening the muscles and increasing its range of motion. John had been coming to the pool regularly, and he felt fitter than he had in years. The tremor in his hand was only intermittent now, and his leg was completely pain free.

He swam on, losing track of time, finally tiring himself. He stopped, clinging to the edge of the pool, catching his breath, enjoying how heavy his arms and legs felt.

He let himself tip back into the water, floating idly for a few moments. A memory resurfaced, the sensation of swimming in the lake with Sherlock at night, floating under the stars, making love by the fire on the beach. For a moment, John was gripped with a physical ache, a longing that settled in his chest.

He stared at the ceiling, willing the ache to go away. When it finally subsided, he hauled himself from the water, drying himself with a towel, trying not to bring the memory back to mind.

He padded to the changing room, where he quickly stripped off his swim trunks and stepped into the showers. The hot water streamed over his chilled skin, making it tingle as it warmed. He finally turned off the tap and wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbing a second towel to rub at his hair as he headed back to his locker to change.

A group of men entered the room, talking loudly, jostling and joking with each other. He tuned out the banter of the men, only lifting his head when he heard a familiar name.

“Nice right hook, Holmes. You nearly knocked his head off.”

John immediately picked out Sherlock from across the room. He had just pulled off his vest, pausing to nod at the acquaintance who had complimented his sparring. John's hands stilled as he took in the sight of Sherlock's bare chest and arms, every vein and muscle defined, a living sculpture.

John looked away, knowing he shouldn't stare, then stole another glance. Sherlock was sitting on the bench to remove his shoes and socks, his back curved, his spine standing out in sharp relief, shoulder blades flexing like wings. John stood in his towel, utterly distracted, uselessly sorting through his clothes, unable to focus on the simple task of getting dressed.

He couldn’t help but glance across the steamy room again. Sherlock was standing with his back to him, his head bent down, fingers working at the drawstring of his boxing shorts, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. He shimmied out of the shorts, tossing them into his open locker. John gazed longer than he should have, soaking in Sherlock's long legs, defined calves, carved thighs, plush arse.

Sherlock turned around to reach for a folded towel on the bench, his cock pendulous, swinging slightly beneath the thatch of dark hair at his groin. John swallowed. God, he was more beautiful than he remembered.

Even though they had been living together for several months, they had studiously avoided seeing each other in any state of undress, closed doors and tightly belted dressing gowns ensuring their almost Victorian modesty. Seeing Sherlock naked after so many years was a revelation, his body fully matured and hardened, lean and whiplike.

Sherlock slung the towel low around his hips, his eyes flicking up as if he could sense that he was being watched. His eyes locked onto John's.

Caught, John froze, unable to do anything but hold the gaze. He saw Sherlock's eyes rove down his torso and legs in return, perhaps equally surprised to see his flatmate nearly naked. His eyes traveled back up John’s body, settling on his left shoulder.

The scar. John resisted turning away, trying not to be ashamed of the ugly bullet wound marring his skin. He took a steady breath and let Sherlock look.

Men milled by, passing between their line of sight. It was Sherlock who finally spoke first, calling to him across the room.

“Wait for me in the bar. I’ll walk back with you.”

Sherlock's voice sounded casual, but John detected a deliberate effort of nonchalance behind the words.

John nodded, feeling anything but nonchalant. He turned his attention back to his clothes, finally pulling on his pants and trousers. When he looked back, Sherlock had disappeared into the showers, out of sight.

He dressed quickly, not wanting to risk the awkwardness of seeing Sherlock naked again. He headed straight to the bar, ordering a whiskey and tall glass of water. He found a table in the corner, where he drank the water quickly and nursed the drink slowly, running a hand distractedly through his damp hair.

He was on pins and needles waiting for Sherlock. Old memories and longings haunted him, stirring up emotions that he didn't know what to do with.

A shadow crossed the table and Sherlock eased into the seat across from him.

John decided it would be best to try to ignore the exchange of looks in the changing room. “Are you having anything?” John tilted his head at his almost empty whiskey glass.

“I might have something later, at home. Take your time,” he added.

John kept his eyes on his glass, turning it a bit, absorbed by the distortion of his fingers. Sherlock smelled fragrant, his skin probably warm underneath his impeccable suit.

“Your stroke is improving. Your shoulder must be getting stronger.”

John looked up, surprised. “You saw me swimming?”

“Just for a few minutes.”

The thought of Sherlock watching him spurred yet another emotion. Self- consciousness? Vanity? “I watched you box for a few minutes, too.” He glanced at Sherlock's mouth. “How's the lip?”

Sherlock touched the cut with a fingertip. “Tender.”

John found it difficult to look away from Sherlock's mouth, a thin seam of dried blood lining his swollen lower lip. It made him look wanton, over-kissed. John was highly aware of how their knees nearly touched under the table. He hurriedly swallowed the last of his drink.

“Shall we?” John asked, rising briskly.

Sherlock moved more slowly, trailing after John. They collected their coats and bags, then stepped out into the November night.

They walked side by side without speaking, hunching their shoulders against the cold.

About halfway back to the flat, Sherlock slowed. “I need to make a quick stop. There's someone I need to see.”

John glanced at him, already familiar with Sherlock's ‘it's for a case’ tone. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Sherlock hesitated. “Do you mind waiting in an alley?”

John gave him a sidelong look. “Who are you meeting in an alley?”

“A contact who values their privacy. And it's a back entrance, not precisely the alley.”

John didn't particularly care for the sound of the situation. “I'll come with you.”

They walked on, threading their way through skinny back streets until they reached the appointed alley.

“Just down here.” Sherlock led the way into the dark canyon of brick walls and garbage bins, coming to a halt in front of a metal door covered in flaking red paint. He checked his watch. “We’re early.”

“Can't you just knock?”

“This person demands strict punctuality. So no.”

They stood huddled in the recess of the doorway, waiting, rocking on their heels. John felt slightly annoyed, cold, and hungry. Glancing over at Sherlock, he could clearly see the spark of anticipation in his eyes. “You really love this, don't you?” John asked, genuinely amazed.

“Love what?”

“This --” he gestured around them. “The dark alleys, the mystery, whatever’s waiting for you behind that door.”

Sherlock looked at him, a small smile crooking his mouth. “I can't help but notice you're right here, too.”

John went silent, unable to counter Sherlock's observation.

“You were there at the beginning.” Sherlock’s voice was a soft rumble. “Remember the boomerang case?”

“Of course.” John licked his lips, finding the courage to say more. “I remember every detail of that summer. Every moment.”

Their eyes met, and it was as if they were in the changing room again, stripped bare, without armor, truly seeing each other again, the past and the present melding.

John’s gaze drifted to Sherlock's mouth, drawn to their bruised beauty, wanting to taste them again, wanting permission to touch him, to slip his hand around the nape of his neck and pull him close.

He felt himself swaying closer, certain Sherlock was turning toward him, leaning down, his lashes low, the dismal alley fading, their breath uneven, their lips mere centimeters apart.

The scrape of a lock turning against hard metal caused John to avert his head, avoiding contact, and hastily step away. The door behind them opened inward, held by a grim looking man. He swept his gaze suspiciously over them, finally resting on Sherlock.

“He’ll see you now, Mr. Holmes,” the man said. “But not him.” He looked pointedly at John.

“I'm sorry, John,” Sherlock murmured in passing. “I'll meet you back at the flat.”

Sherlock vanished into the dim interior and the door clanged shut. John stood there, stunned by what had just nearly happened, unable to move. He rubbed his forehead, not knowing if he should stay or go. He finally decided to return to the flat, too confused to be much use to Sherlock.

He walked at a fast clip, replaying those few moments over and over in his mind. They had nearly kissed -- or had he nearly kissed Sherlock? Had it been one sided, or mutual? Earlier in the changing room -- the gazes they’d exchanged -- something had passed between them in the undercurrent, hadn't there? Christ, what if he had completely botched it up, misreading everything?

His thoughts were cloudy, muddled. He did not want to mistakenly cross a line, didn't want to offend Sherlock with an unwanted advance. Sherlock had said more than once that he was not interested in anything romantic.

John fretted his way back to the flat, where he paced the sitting room. What was he going to say when Sherlock returned?

He would apologize, it was the only solution. He'd explain that he'd had a lapse in judgement, he'd been swept away by nostalgia, and made a mistake that would not happen again.

Armed with a plan, John drew the curtains shut and busied himself by building a fire, warming the room. He sat in his chair, watching the flames leap and dance, one ear listening for the front door to open.

He finally heard the jingle of keys and Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs. John stood, rehearsing his words, nervous again.

Sherlock entered the room, pulling off his blue scarf with a single elegant tug.

“Everything go alright?” John asked.

“I got the information I needed.” Sherlock hung up his coat and turned to face John.

“I have to say something,” John started in a rush, already forgetting his script. “About earlier, in the changing room. And tonight, in the alley…” he hesitated, trying to gauge Sherlock's initial reaction.

Sherlock stepped closer, very close, in fact, searching John's eyes.

John faltered, wilting under Sherlock's scrutiny. He pushed on. “I apologize if I offended you. I was caught up in old memories, thinking about how it used to be... and… I may have crossed a line...”

John’s voice faded, his sentence dying out, smothered by the intensity in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock moved even closer. The heat from the fire licked at the back of John's legs, the crackling flames roaring in his ears. He was burning up, engulfed by Sherlock's gaze.

The feather touch of fingertips on his neck made John shiver involuntarily, two thumbs tipping up his chin. John dropped his gaze to Sherlock's mouth again, the perfect Cupid's bow, the swollen bottom lip, and he closed his eyes, not moving, letting Sherlock control the moment. This had to be Sherlock's choice.

The kiss was soft, a tenuous brush of lips. John breathed in, heart racing, feeling Sherlock inhale shakily at the same time. A tilt of mouths, realigning, remembering, and a second gentle kiss followed, longer, lingering on John's lower lip.

John slid his hands up Sherlock's chest. Him, it was him, flesh and blood and bone, willingly here, offering the intimacy of breath and lips and body, accepting John's touch.

John returned the third kiss, wanting more, forgetting everything but the immediacy of desire. He groaned, pressing his mouth harder against Sherlock’s, his hands tightening their hold, Sherlock's fingers gripping into his skull.

Sherlock suddenly broke away, wincing.

Disoriented, John staggered back, soon seeing the problem. “Oh God, your lip.” He reached up, almost touching the cut.

“Damn it.” Sherlock dabbed impatiently at the wound, traces of red streaking his fingers.

“It's bleeding. We can't -- we can't do this.”

Sherlock pressed his handkerchief against his lip, and they exchanged an agonized look filled with frustration. Sherlock lifted the handkerchief and glanced accusingly at the bright stain.

“This has to heal,” John said softly, running his thumb below Sherlock's lip.

“Timing’s never right, is it?” Sherlock pulled away, his tone tired and bitter.

A wave of guilt washed over John, along with a sense that he had to salvage things immediately.

“Sherlock--” he grabbed Sherlock by the wrist before he could walk away. He tugged him back gently, not wanting to lose their contact. “Stay with me.”

John led him to the sofa and sank down into the corner, pulling Sherlock after him. “Lie down,” John murmured, placing a pillow across his lap. “Let's just enjoy the fire.”

Sherlock didn't resist, stretching his frame along the cushions, gingerly placing his head in John's lap as he held the handkerchief against his lip to stop the bleeding. They were quiet, watching the shifting flames and embers.

Without thinking, John began stroking his fingers through Sherlock's hair, indulging in the silent intimacy. He felt Sherlock gradually relax, his body going limp, his eyes drifting shut.

A drowsy calm filled the room, Sherlock's head resting on his thighs a comforting weight. John's fingers slowed, making small, lazy circles through Sherlock's curls. His eyes felt heavy, his head leaned back against the cushion. Before he knew it, they had both dozed off, giving in to sleep.

The fire had burned down to coals when John woke. His neck was stiff, his legs numb. As carefully as he could, he slipped out from under Sherlock, trying not to wake him. Still half asleep, he arranged a blanket over Sherlock before stumbling upstairs to his room. He hadn't eaten for hours but was past the point of hunger.

In his room, he unbuttoned his shirt, then stood in front of the mirror, contemplative. He extended the fingers of his left hand, gazing at his wedding band. It was time to put it away.

He slipped off the gold ring, holding it in his palm for a few moments, saying a final goodbye to a part of his life that had ended in India. He pulled open the desk drawer and found a box that held an old watch. He placed the ring in the box, then slid the drawer closed again.

John fell into bed, the ghostly imprint of the ring still whispering around his finger, but his hand felt lighter, free at last.

 

**************

The enticing scent of sausage and bacon drifted up the stairs as John made his way down to the kitchen the next morning.

Sherlock stood gazing out the kitchen window with a tea cup in his hand, a dressing gown tossed over his rumpled clothes from the night before.

Two plates heaped with a full breakfast steamed on the table. Mrs. Hudson, it seemed, had just popped in with one of her delicious fry-ups that she often spoiled them with.

Sherlock turned as John entered the room. “Mrs. Hudson always knows when our icebox is empty.”

“She is a marvel,” John agreed, his stomach grumbling. He accepted the tea that Sherlock handed to him. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of what had happened last night, so they sat down, arranging their cups and fiddling with their forks and knives.

“Your lip -- how is it?” John ventured.

“Better. Still a bit sore.”

John took a closer look, noting that it appeared less swollen and would heal in a matter of days. “I advise against boxing for a few weeks.”

Sherlock smiled briefly. “Quite right, Doctor.”

They ate in silence, adjusting to the new atmosphere between them. When the room grew even quieter, John looked up, then followed Sherlock’s gaze back to his own left hand. Sherlock clearly had noticed the absent wedding band.

Sherlock lifted his eyes to John, searching his face. “You're sure?”

John held his gaze. “I'm sure.”

In counterpoint, John silently wondered about Sherlock's oft-stated vow to devote himself solely to his work -- after all, he had been the one to instigate the kiss by the fireplace last evening. John smiled a little, finally able to see through Sherlock’s hyperbole. He had his flaws and needs and weaknesses, just like everybody else.

Sherlock gazed into his cup, his voice soft when he finally spoke. “What do we do now?”

John had no clever answer. “Take it slowly, I think.”

Sherlock absently picked up the jar of golden honey on the table. “That's what my father once told me about working with bees. You need to take things slowly, or else you'll get stung.” He looked up at John.

John heard the double meaning in his words and reached across the table to cover Sherlock’s hand with his own. There would always be the risk of causing pain and being hurt again; no relationship was immune from that.

“But bees make honey,” John pointed out lightly, intertwining their fingers, “and honey is sweet.” He leaned forward, placing a tender kiss at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. “I’ll take the risk if you will.”

He felt Sherlock’s mouth curve under his, his reply soft and low and welcome. “I will.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, finally, finally! God, it was lovely to get these two back together. Hmm, what kind of scene might the next chapter have in it?


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock sat impatiently at the cafe table, adding too much sugar to his tea and snapping off the corner of a ginger biscuit while he waited for a contact to collect a heavy packet of documents from him. It was for a case Mycroft had asked him to take, quietly exhuming the life history of a minor politician -- schools, travels, love affairs, the lot. Sherlock pressed for additional details on what exactly he should be looking for, but Mycroft refused to divulge more information.

It wasn’t ideal, not knowing details, but the work helped pass the time, since John had been called away suddenly to fill in for a doctor who’d been injured in an automobile accident. He'd been gone for nearly a week, stuck in some dreary village an hour north of London, staying in a local inn to avoid the long commute.

As Sherlock waited, his attention was gradually captured by a couple sitting near the window. He noted the close angles of their bodies, the almost-touch of their hands on the table, their gazes holding and breaking, the faint color rising on their cheeks. Sherlock could feel it across the room, the electricity of their attraction to each other.

He let his mind wander back to the club, how he had surreptitiously watched John in the swimming pool, remembering the way his shoulder muscles flexed as he sliced through the water, the charged tension between them in the changing room, the near brush of their lips in the alley, desire driving him to defy caution and kiss him by the fireplace.

Sherlock touched his bottom lip with a fingertip, testing the small degree of tenderness that remained. Ironic, wasn't it, that when they finally let their barriers down, he was dealt a split lip and John was whisked away, effectively halting any progress beyond that first tentative kiss. If they meant to take things slowly, then the fates were certainly helping.

Maybe it was for the best, the extra time, since they had agreed not to rush things. It was the prudent thing to do, after all. He was well aware that it was a risk to go down this path with John again, his guarded heart wary. And yet… all the caution and reason in the world dissolved into dust when he was near John, his heart suddenly vulnerable and willing.

He didn't understand his own contradictions, and maybe he never would. What the heart wanted could not be dissected and dispassionately examined under a microscope, neatly classified and catalogued. It was, to his chagrin, wildly beyond logic.

His thoughts clicked back to work as soon as he saw a brunette woman walking toward his table. Tweed skirt, manicured nails, direct gaze, clearly an office girl from Whitehall. It was his contact, who would deliver the dossier to Mycroft.

The sky was heavy and dark by the time he left the cafe. Cold drops of rain splattered onto the pavement, soon turning into a steady drizzle. Sherlock cursed himself, knowing that he didn't have enough money for a cab. He'd been putting off going to the bank for days and had only a few coins left in his pocket.

Resigned, he turned up his coat collar and began walking toward the nearest Underground entrance, dreading standing amongst the crush of damp humanity that would smell like wet wool and old boots.

When he finally arrived at Baker Street, the rain was lashing, soaking him to the bone. He hung his heavy coat in the entryway to dry, shivering as he mounted the stairs to the flat. To his surprise, the lights were on and the fire lit. Just as he turned to look for John, he appeared in the doorway.

“You’re back.” Sherlock stated the obvious, but he was caught off guard by the sight of John in a cream-colored knit jumper, his face more handsome than he remembered.

“They found a long-term replacement. I caught the first train back.” John smiled, assessing the droplets falling from Sherlock’s hair and clothes onto the rug. “You didn't have enough cash for cab fare, did you?”

Sherlock scowled, irritated that John could so easily deduce what had happened.

“Go stand by the fire,” John grinned, walking to the bathroom and soon returning with a towel.

Sherlock accepted it, rubbing at his wet hair, finally settling the towel around his shoulders. John was watching him, standing close, still amused.

Sherlock gazed back at John, unable to repress an answering smile at his own foolishness. John reached up, brushing away a damp ringlet from his forehead.

“I'm glad to be back,” John said, his voice soft.

Sherlock knew then they were not going to exchange pleasantries about John’s time away or his latest case, or about the train trip or the terrible weather. Instead, they were instantly back where they had left things -- the kiss, the agreed-upon risk -- a door reopened, ready to be nudged wider if they dared move forward.

Sherlock finally found his voice. “I should get out of these wet clothes.”

“Yes, you should,” John agreed.

Sherlock peeled off his suit jacket, tossing it onto his chair. He stood a moment, letting John’s eyes roam over his damp shirt. A thousand unspoken thoughts passed instantly between them -- memories, fears, desires, want. His heart and brain and body simultaneously flickered in response to John's gaze, drawn in, his mouth finding John’s again.

This time no cut lip interfered, no hesitation hampered their kiss, eager and intense.

John pulled back slightly, touching the side of Sherlock’s neck. “You’re freezing.”

The wet clothes were an annoying, chilling hindrance that needed to be discarded. Sherlock made a bold decision to move forward.

“Come with me.” He took John’s hand into his cold palm and led him to his bedroom, dark but for the light from the sitting room that slanted through the open door.

Sherlock lifted his fingers, still stiff with cold, and fumbled at the top buttons of his shirt. Whether it was from nerves or the cold, he couldn’t manage to push the simple buttons through their holes.

“Here, let me,” John offered, his hands rising to Sherlock’s chest.

One by one, John freed the buttons, working his way down the white placket, his hands lingering at Sherlock’s waist as the shirt gaped open. Their eyes met, pupils large in the dark. John tipped closer, his fingers skating up Sherlock’s stomach, his palms curving around his ribcage, his thumbs hovering enticingly near his peaked nipples.

They kissed again, softer this time, fingers gradually pulling at shirt tails, sliding off jumpers, working at buttons, easing down trousers, undressing. They lifted the bed covers, sliding under the cool sheets and the cozy weight of the duvet.

They laid on their sides, John curling around Sherlock’s back. Sherlock exhaled blissfully, the heat of John’s chest and thighs soaking into his chilled skin like the warmth of the sun.

John nuzzled the nape of Sherlock’s neck, holding him, warming him.

“You always take care of me,” Sherlock murmured. It was easier to talk in the dark.

John nestled his chin just behind Sherlock’s shoulder. “I want to.” He pressed his mouth against the curve of his neck. “Besides, you’re the one who took care of me when I came back.” He paused, continuing after a moment. “You gave me a place to live. A reason to live. You saved me.”

Sherlock stared at the wall as John’s words sank in, stunned by John’s confession. He had helped John, but saved him? How could he, a selfish, arrogant, irresponsible prick, ever be worthy of such praise?

“You may not believe it, but it’s true,” John added, reading his thoughts.

Sherlock didn’t know how to answer, so he reached back to place his hand on John’s thigh. John pressed closer, his palm sliding down to cover Sherlock’s sternum.

“Maybe we’re good for each other,” Sherlock ventured quietly.

John dipped his nose against Sherlock’s temple, his lips feathering against his ear. “We are.”

Warmth flooded Sherlock’s body. He turned in John’s arms, capturing his bottom lip between his own, his hands running over John’s back. He wanted to feel every inch of John again, relearn every muscle and dip and curve.

Time dissolved into mouths and tongues, fingers tracing and grasping, legs hooking over thighs. They tasted and touched, exploring, rediscovering each other.

So much was familiar, the way their bodies slotted together, the scent of John's skin, but other aspects were new -- small surprises, some passionate, some playful, some rough, some tender. Coiled together, skin against skin, their hips began a slow rutting.

“God, I’ve missed you,” John breathed raggedly against Sherlock’s neck, their cocks trapped between their undulating bodies. Sherlock rolled onto his back as John’s mouth trailed down his throat, skimmed to his collarbone, licked and suckled at his nipples.

Sherlock’s fingers threaded through John’s hair as his lips moved lower, anointing his belly, grazing his navel and the fine line of dark hair that ran beneath it. Sherlock watched, mesmerized as John gathered his cock in his hand, flicking his eyes up in a sultry gaze as he guided the head to his lips.

The contrast of hot mouth, wet tongue, and cool air playing against his taut skin was extraordinary. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut, his lips falling slightly open. It had been so long since anyone had touched him this way. For a moment, he felt 20 years old again, every sensation sending jolts through his system.

But years of experience had taught him how to take control of his own pleasure. His drew up his knees, spreading them wider, inviting John to take him deeper.

“So good,” Sherlock murmured, wending his fingers into John’s hair again, telegraphing how slow, how fast, how hard John should move his mouth and hand. John obeyed, lavishing Sherlock's cock with expert attention, lapping and swirling, sucking and gliding.

Sherlock groaned luxuriously, inhaling suddenly at the sensation of John's fingertip teasing his entrance, then slipping inside him. His back arched in response, a flood of new nerves aroused.

“Oh, God… more...” he begged weakly, now turning full control over to John. His hands slid from John’s head onto his own skin, stroking up his torso, fingers playing over his nipples, fueling the fire coursing through his veins.

John eased his finger in further while slowly taking him deeper in his mouth, his gaze unwavering. Sherlock let out a helpless whimper, melting under John's touch.

He closed his eyes, relishing the sensation of being in John, of John being in him, an unbroken circle of fingers and holes and mouths and cocks, giving and taking and giving again.

“John --” Sherlock choked out a warning, overwhelmed, peaking, ready to fall into the abyss, “God, oh --”

A rush of warmth exploded into spirals of pleasure, his fragmented body floating like tossed petals, drifting, descending, landing. He gradually became aware of John kissing his lips, the weight of his body holding him down, piecing him back together.

Sherlock smoothed his hands down John’s lower back, cupping his buttocks as he regained his breath. He felt the heaviness of John’s hard cock on his belly, precome leaking near his navel.

Sherlock slipped his fingers between them to wrap around John’s shaft, smearing the fluid over the tip with his thumb. “Come for me.”

John smiled slyly, sitting back on his heels, straddling Sherlock’s hips, grasping his cock, stroking himself.

Sherlock watched, sloe-eyed, taking in the way John’s tendons in his neck stood out, the changing pattern of his breath as he worked himself to the brink, the urgent _fwap-fwap_ rhythm of palm and foreskin and dangling balls. Sherlock’s hands returned to the irresistible curves of John’s arse, caressing and massaging.

“Come on me,” Sherlock urged temptingly, “come on my stomach, my neck, my mouth. I don’t care. Come all over me.”

The words were like a spell, granting John release. He pitched forward with an incoherent grunt, a copious strand of come striping hot across Sherlock’s chest, another slashing across his neck. John coaxed out the last creamy spasms over Sherlock’s open mouth, semen pearling his lower lip, dribbling down his chin.

“Christ,” John collapsed on top of Sherlock again, panting, his collarbone digging into Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock wrapped his arms and legs around John, never wanting to let go.

“Christ,” Sherlock echoed, muffled against John’s neck, realizing their promise to take things slowly had just been turned to ashes. The covers lay tangled around them, the room musty with the scent of sex.

John slid off Sherlock with a sigh, and they turned onto their sides again, this time face to face. John pulled the sheet up to their waists to keep in the warmth. Sherlock gently touched the scar on John's shoulder, memorizing the uneven texture of the skin.

Everything he’d ever felt for John was still alive, burning brighter and truer despite seven missing years. To be here with him again like this, intimate, private, with no fear of prying eyes or impending separation looming over them, was a dream.

For the first time, he dared to imagine a future with John in it. The thought struck him with an intense pang of hope that raced across his features like pain.

John cupped his cheek, concern clouding his face. “You okay?”

“John…” Sherlock said his name softly, ready to share his newly discovered realization, “I'm happy.”

John’s mouth curved in a smile that reached his eyes, warming their deep blue color. “So am I.” He kissed Sherlock again, whispering against his lips. “Happier than I thought I’d ever be again.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh... reunited at last. We're getting close to the end, friends. I'm not sure if that makes me happy or sad!


	30. Chapter 30

John woke gradually, letting memories of last night wash over him, floating in the luxurious knowledge that Sherlock was sleeping next to him. Happiness still glowed in his chest like a warm ember, too fragile for examination, so he let it rest undisturbed, stowed away like a treasure.

It was early, so he dozed a little longer, pulling the covers up around their shoulders, snuggling his feet into the pocket of warmth at the foot of the bed, relishing the pressure of Sherlock’s knees pressing into the back of his thighs.

After awhile, he turned to gaze at Sherlock, tempted to trace his fingers over his lips, to kiss his stubbly cheek, to rest his hand over the slow rise and fall of his sternum. John finally slipped out of bed, reluctant to stir his soundly sleeping bedmate.

He quickly showered and shaved, then headed to his room for a change of clothes. As he dressed, the quiet motions took him back to the early mornings in the army, buttoning up his uniform for the long hours ahead.

In all honesty, he was glad those regimented days were behind him. He didn't regret his service, but the outcome was far from the glorious army career he had envisioned as a young man.

The army had given him what he wanted -- discipline and training, travel and adventure -- and left him with a respectable rank and a small pension, along with a ravaged shoulder and occasional nightmares. Not what his 23-year-old self had dreamed of, he thought wryly.

His thoughts drifted back through the years to his family, to school and university, to the summer with Sherlock, to Mary and the years in India. He had loved and lost, and loved and lost again, and he had been tested, tasting success and failure, learning about the darkest corners of his soul. He had, to his sudden surprise, accumulated a life.

All the joys and sorrows had given him perspective on what he really wanted -- and what he wanted, _who_ he wanted -- was in the bedroom downstairs. That lanky body and those mesmerizing eyes. That brain, a racing engine of arcane knowledge and keen observation that could capture nuances in a spot of blood or the burnish of a brass door handle.

How was it possible that he had let go of this brilliant, luminous human being, only to be given a second chance? Time with Sherlock was a precious currency he would not waste again.

The faint hiss of the shower running nudged John from his reverie. He stood listening, imagining Sherlock naked, still groggy, stepping under the water, letting it stream over his rumpled hair and into his face, rivulets running down his arms and chest and thighs.

He could go to Sherlock right now, step unannounced into the bathroom, strip off the clothes he just put on, and join him. They could touch each other freely, the room steaming, the mirror fogging…

Or he could make them tea, bringing Sherlock his mug while he finished shaving. Sherlock’s hair would be damp, slicked back, flecks of shaving foam smudged under his ear and on his neck. John would breathe in his clean, soapy scent, slip a hand between the folds of his dressing gown, teasing him to semi-hardness...

John smiled, weighing his options, deciding on the latter course. The ember glowed brighter as he jauntily descended the stairs and entered the kitchen to put on the kettle. He pulled out two mugs and the tea tin, sugar and spoons.

The shower stopped just as the kettle began to boil. John listened for the sink filling, heard the tap of the razor against the porcelain as he prepared the tea, making it strong and milky sweet the way Sherlock liked it.

Finally, John knocked lightly on the bathroom door. It opened almost immediately, Sherlock wrapped in the blue dressing gown, his hair slicked back as John had predicted, the silver razor poised in his hand, just a few patches left to shave.

“Tea,” John said, offering a mug to Sherlock.

“Ah, lovely.” Sherlock took an appreciative sip before setting it down.

John perched on the edge of the tub with his tea, watching Sherlock finish the last strokes with his razor, chin tipped up, gorgeous neck extended. There was nowhere else he'd rather be, John thought, than right here, sharing this mundane moment with this extraordinary man.

As Sherlock rinsed the razor, John set his mug aside then rose to his feet. He nestled behind Sherlock, looping his arms around his waist, just wanting to hold him. He rested his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder, feeling Sherlock relax into his embrace.

The scents of lather and tea hung heavy in the small room, intensified by the humid air. They melded into each other, unmoving, their breath in sync. John wanted to say things about last night, but could not bring them to his lips, willing his emotions to radiate through his arms and body -- affection, desire, contentment, gratitude, protectiveness, possessiveness.

It was Sherlock who covered John's hand and guided it under the silk of his dressing gown, undoing the loose knot of the belt with his other hand. The robe fell open, allowing John's fingers to rove lower and curl around the warm weight of Sherlock's cock.

John loved how it shifted and changed under his touch, engorging, lengthening. He envisioned finishing Sherlock off with his hand, or dropping his trousers and bending Sherlock over the sink, thrusting from behind, catching glimpses of their gasping faces in the mirror. Arousing, but lacking the depth of intimacy he craved.

Instead, John withdrew his hand, sliding his palm up Sherlock's inner thigh and across his taut belly. He turned Sherlock, finding his mouth, holding his face in his hands. His skin was dewy, fragrant.

“I think,” John suggested softly, “we ought to go back to bed with our tea.”

“And then what?” Sherlock dipped his mouth to John's neck, the dressing gown migrating off one shoulder.

“And then,” John kissed Sherlock, ending with a lingering tug on his bottom lip, “I think we’ll figure something out.”

The tea was only half finished, abandoned and left to grow cold, clothes in a heap on the bedroom floor, bare feet tangled in the sheets.

John could not touch enough of Sherlock’s skin, could not satiate his need to hold and caress him, could not get his fill of roaming lips and damp hair, legs skimming across each other, arms and elbows adjusting as they rolled in the bed. He moaned when Sherlock’s fingers wound around his cock, stroking and teasing him until he was achingly hard.

“I want you,” Sherlock murmured against John's mouth.

“God, yes,” John breathed back. “I need you. All of you. Inside of you.”

A tube was rummaged from the back of a drawer, its contents squeezed onto fingertips, smeared and glistening. Holding each other's gazes, John pressed in slowly, patiently, joining their bodies. He began moving his hips, Sherlock drawing up his knees, clasping his calves around John's waist.

John drank in every detail of Sherlock’s face, every grimace and groan and sigh, welcoming the bite of Sherlock's fingernails in his back, savoring the taste of Sherlock's lips as he stretched over him, trapping him beneath his arms.

John could feel his own climax building and knew he wouldn't last long. He didn't care. He just wanted to chase the ecstasy of losing track of where he ended and where Sherlock began, their boundaries blurring, their breath and bodies merging into one.

They wrapped around each other like vines clinging to a tree, climbing toward the light. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, panting, thrusting, almost fearful of his own passion. The intensity of his orgasm flooded over him, momentarily drowning him, making him gasp.

He could feel Sherlock's hands gliding down his back, soothing him, the long fingers spanning his buttocks, holding him in place, anchoring him to earth.

John breathed against Sherlock's skin, still drifting in the haze of their union. “Sherlock…” he whispered his name, afraid of dispelling the dreamy atmosphere and losing his courage if he spoke too loudly, “I need to tell you something.”

Sherlock’s hands stilled. He was listening.

John hesitated, keeping his lips near Sherlock's neck. “I love you. I’ve loved you since that summer, and I never stopped. I want you to know that.”

Sherlock didn't move, and John feared that he'd made a mistake in speaking. But then Sherlock's lips were on his forehead, fumbling, gentle, his voice husky.

“I love you too. Since that summer. Always.”

John lifted his face to Sherlock's, their eyes meeting, cautiously amazed. John cupped Sherlock's cheek with his hand, drawing their mouths together.

“I love you,” John murmured again, almost giddy with relief at finally saying the words that had haunted him for years, “I'm yours. Completely yours.”

Sherlock pulled John closer, stroking his face, kissing his mouth. “You are my heart.”

John felt the glow in his chest again, the flame stoked even stronger with Sherlock's unexpectedly tender and revealing words. Sherlock did not know how big his own heart was, or its immeasurable worth, which stirred another wave of protectiveness in John. He would guard Sherlock's life, aid his work, feed him, heal him, support and inspire him with whatever meager talents he possessed.

John held Sherlock's face in his hands, gazing into his eyes. “I knew it, the very first day I saw you. You were standing under a tree, all mysterious, dressed in white, smoking. I knew you were something special.”

Sherlock smiled. “I didn't make a very good impression when we talked for the first time, as I recall.”

“You were an arse,” John teased. “But you were unforgettable.”

“So were you."

John smiled in return, leaning in to cover Sherlock's lips with his own. “We’re not leaving this bed today,” he said between kisses. “No cases. No clients. No telephone calls.”

“None,” Sherlock agreed, twining his arms and legs around John. “Just the two us.”


	31. Chapter 31

John readjusted the satchel on his shoulder and the bag of groceries in his hand as he climbed the stairs, already thinking about what he would make for dinner. He had worked all day and pushed home through the evening crowd of Christmas shoppers and commuters, ready to finally sit down and relax.

As he neared the door, he could hear Sherlock's voice, then saw that he was on the telephone, standing near the window.

“I'm aware of that, Mother.” Sherlock intoned, spinning away from the window in agitation. He caught sight of John and rolled his eyes, shrugging helplessly. “Yes, I know. … Yes, I've already said three times that I'll be there. … Oh God, must we do that again?”

John busied himself in the kitchen, trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation, but it was practically unavoidable in the small flat.

“Absolutely not! It's Mycroft's turn! … Mother --” Sherlock sighed heavily, evidently losing the argument. He raked his hand down his face in defeat. “Fine.”

John smirked. Clearly, Mrs. Holmes was as commanding as ever. Several more minutes went by, Sherlock repeatedly glancing at his watch.

“Yes. … Of course I’ll ask him. For once I agree with you. I’ll let you know, alright? I really must dash -- yes, Mummy, I will -- must go -- client -- terribly urgent.” Sherlock ended the call, looking exhausted. He glanced sheepishly at John. “My mother says hello.”

John grinned. “I gather she said more than that.”

Sherlock flopped into his chair with a groan. “Christmas. The annual family gathering. A week away from London. It's hell.”

John sat across from him, amused by his dramatic complaining.

Sherlock flicked his eyes up at John. “You're invited.”

John blinked, surprised.

“Unless, of course, you have other plans?”

“No, I -- I don't.” John hadn't really thought about the holidays. He'd exchanged a few sparse letters with Harry over the years and would send her a card, but otherwise had no family to spend time with. He'd grown accustomed to quiet and uneventful Christmases. The idea of a sparkling tree, lavish dinner, crackling fire, and the Holmes’ family lively bickering was enormously appealing. “I'd love to come.”

Sherlock threw his head back in relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“You're sure it's alright?”

“Of course! Mother insists. Besides, I was going to invite you anyway.”

John returned Sherlock's sly smile, genuinely touched.

“I'll let her know you'll be coming,” Sherlock continued. “And I'll make sure you get a room just down the hall from mine.” He winked, then pushed himself out of his chair. “Now put on your coat. We’re going to Whitechapel.”

“What?” John scrambled to his feet. “Why?”

“Lestrade phoned while you were out.” Sherlock had already pulled on his coat and was winding his scarf around his neck. “One of my favorites -- a poisoning.”

Forgetting dinner, John grabbed his jacket and followed Sherlock's rapid descent down the stairs, somehow simultaneously delighted at the prospects of both crime and Christmas.

 

******************

Mr. Holmes met them at the train station with a cheerful smile and firm hugs, the blue Vauxhall still immaculately polished. When they arrived at Musgrave Hall their luggage was whisked away while Mrs. Holmes greeted them.

She quickly took John under her wing as they walked upstairs to get settled. “Now, you’ll have the third room on the left. It has a lovely view of the rose garden. Pity it's the wrong time of year to see it in all its glory.”

Sherlock watched his mother usher John into his guest room and silently wished him luck, knowing she would fuss over the curtains and straighten the bed covers, then explain the origins of each piece of furniture and painting.

He shut his bedroom door and stretched out on his old bed, closing his eyes for a brief rest before they gathered in the library for tea. In the following days, they would be joined by Mycroft and Uncle Rudy, possibly a distant cousin or two. Various friends and neighbors would drop by, some staying for dinner, others for drinks or card games.

Just thinking about all the small talk and forced smiles made Sherlock tired. And now that he had gained something of a reputation as a detective, someone was bound to ask him questions about a case. On more than one occasion he had nearly ruined a meal by providing too many grisly details.

He never was very good at judging those situations; what was shocking to most people was merely interesting to him. Thankfully, this year John would be nearby to nudge his foot or deftly redirect the conversation if he veered off course.

Sherlock dozed, waking to a light knock on his door.

“Come in.” He sat up, rubbing his neck.

John looked around the door, then entered the room.

“Shut the door.” Sherlock waved his hand. “So you survived the history of furnishings as told by my mother.”

“Your mum is sweet,” John said mildly, wandering around the room, touching things here and there. He leaned against the desk and looked at Sherlock knowingly. “I remember that bed. We sneaked up here our last night together before I went off to training.”

Sherlock held his gaze. “We fucked.”

“And ate ripe pears at midnight.”

“And kissed goodbye by the beehives.”

They shared a poignant smile, remembering the bittersweet end of that summer. John moved from the desk to the bed, lowering Sherlock to the mattress in a soft embrace.

“How lucky are we, to have a second chance?” John murmured.

Sherlock didn't answer right away, remembering more from that night, recalling his own words. _I’m afraid I'll never feel this way again._

He had been right -- he never did feel the same way again. Not even now. He gazed at John, realizing that what he felt at this moment was even more powerful than that sultry night, almost more than his heart could hold.

“Very lucky,” Sherlock replied, placing his lips on John's cheek, moving slowly to kiss his temple, then his mouth.

Another rap on the door sent them springing apart, smoothing waistcoats and hair. John returned to the desk while Sherlock answered the door. It was the maid, Elizabeth.

“Tea will be served in 10 minutes, sir.” She craned her neck past Sherlock to peer at John. “Nice to have you back, Dr. Watson.”

John looked up, trying to place her, then took several steps forward. “Ah, yes…” he struggled for her name.

“Elizabeth, sir.”

“Elizabeth. Of course. Now I remember. I knew it was a pretty name.”

She smiled, clearly flattered. “Thank you, sir.”

Sherlock glanced between them, noting John's broad smile, hands on his hips, the color rising on Elizabeth’s neck, a dimple forming in her cheek. Good God, were they flirting?

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. “You should finish unpacking, John. Don’t want to be late for tea.” He glared at him.

Elizabeth gave a quick nod of her head, her eyes still on John, and Sherlock pushed the door shut, perhaps harder than necessary.

“Really, John.” Sherlock chided.

“What?” John turned to him, still smiling. “She's attractive, don't you think?”

“I have no opinion on the matter.”

John cocked his head, his smile changing to surprise. “Are you jealous?”

Sherlock walked away, pretending to straighten the items on his desk. “That's ridiculous.”

He felt John's arms wrap around him from behind. “You _are_ jealous.” John kissed his neck. “You git.”

Sherlock resisted his charms. “Go unpack.”

“There's only one thing I want to unpack.” John’s hand slid suggestively to Sherlock's crotch, rubbing him through his trousers.

“John, this is hardly the time.” Sherlock bit his lower lip, wishing he hadn't said hard. “Tea…” he faltered as John's fingers worked open his belt and flies, his hand slipping down his pants, exploring, fondling.

“There's plenty of time,” John reassured him, turning him by the hips and tugging his trousers lower. He sank to his knees, taking Sherlock into his mouth.

Sherlock knew they should be more discreet; this wasn't the private haven of Baker Street. They should have locked the door, should have shut the curtains. But the risk only heightened his senses, his body strung taut and electric.

The edge of the desk bit into the back of his thighs. He imagined the line pressed into his skin, the telltale red seam imprinted just beneath his buttocks gradually fading as they sipped Earl Grey in the library, John's lips innocently blowing across the top of his tea cup, that same mouth now doing lascivious things to his cock, the scent of their quick tryst still lingering on their fingers.

Such thoughts made him harder, his balls throbbing. He gripped John's hair, pushing his cock deeper past John's pink lips. He tipped his neck back, giving himself over to John's talented tongue and rhythmic stroking, his breath quickening. He was close to coming, so close, so close… He choked out a stifled cry, shuddering hot bursts down John's swallowing throat.

Sherlock slumped against the desk, spent, as John licked him clean. He rose to his feet, finding Sherlock's mouth. “Still jealous?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted, winding his arms around John's shoulders.

“Good.” John kissed him, musky scented. “I want only you. No one else. But sometimes a pretty face makes me act like an idiot.”

“Yes, you are an idiot.” Sherlock shoved him away playfully. “Go wash up.”

“Says the man with his trousers around his ankles.”

Sherlock tucked himself back into his clothes, trying to regain his poise. John soon rejoined him, suit jacket on.

“Ready?” John asked.

“Ready.”

 

*********************

The house smelled of fresh cut pine and honeyed wax candles, mulled spices and wood smoke. Drinks were flowing, the phonograph spinning, chatter and laughter rising to the ceiling.

Sherlock stood in a corner with a glass of wine, taking a moment to observe the Christmas Eve crowd. His mother was holding court on the sofa, his father refilling drinks, Mycroft playing backgammon with Uncle Rudy, John chatting with several neighbors.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned to find Molly at his elbow, the tiny crystal beads on her dusky rose dress catching the light.

“Molly,” he greeted her warmly, bending to give her a peck on the cheek. “I didn't know you were coming.”

“I do get out of the morgue every now and then,” she joked. “I'm visiting my parents for Christmas. But you knew that already. I mean, it's the same every year, isn't it?”

“Almost.” Sherlock glanced toward John and Molly followed his line of sight.

“Oh, John's here! How nice!” Molly exclaimed. “I suppose with his mum and aunt gone… well, it's good to have a place to go for the holidays.” She twirled the stem of her wine glass. “It's like the old days, the three of us back here. That was a wonderful summer.”

“It was.”

“It's good the two of you have been able to stay such close friends after all these years. That's rare, you know.”

Sherlock slid his eyes over to Molly, wondering what she was getting at.

“You and John have a special friendship,” she continued. She looked up at him with a direct gaze. “I'm happy you found each other again.”

Sherlock was taken off guard, unsure if he should pretend not to understand her implication. He studied her a moment longer, then was certain that she knew the truth.

“You're a good friend, Molly,” he said softly.

“I try to be,” she smiled, squeezing his hand briefly. “Oh -- guess who I saw this morning at the bakery? Ian Dimmock,” she said without waiting for Sherlock to answer.

“Dimmock? Where did he end up?”

“Bristol. He says he still wants to transfer to London someday and join Scotland Yard.”

“Hm. That would be… ambitious.”

“Anything’s possible, I suppose.”

“Speaking of the Yard, where is DI Lestrade spending Christmas?”

“Um, he's staying in London, I think.” She toyed with her necklace, her eyes darting away.

“Seeing him at New Year's?”

“No.” Her cheeks went red. “Yes. Dammit, how'd you know?”

He smiled. “It's what I do, knowing things.”

They talked for a few more minutes until Molly's mother beckoned to her from across the room. Molly rolled her eyes. “I better go see what she needs. We should all have a drink at the pub before you go back to the city.”

“I'd like that.”

“I'll ring you, okay?” Molly fortified her glass with another splash of wine before threading through the crowd.

Sherlock was about to refill his own glass when Mycroft appeared beside him. “Not my preferred vintage, but I'll take another glass since you're pouring.”

Sherlock handed him a goblet. “Did you lose to Uncle Rudy again?”

Mycroft sniffed at the bouquet. “Chess is more my game.” He took a sip. “Mummy is insisting that we play a duet after dinner, you know. I assume you brought your violin?”

Sherlock sighed. “I did.”

“Shall we play the Bach or the Beethoven?”

“The Bach.”

They both studied the room.

“Doctor Watson seems to be holding up,” Mycroft observed.

“It's not the first time he's met our family.”

“True. He knows what he's getting into.” Mycroft took another sip, then held the glass up to the light, evaluating the color. “I must say, the two of you are looking well. Flat sharing seems to suit you.”

Sherlock straightened his shoulders defensively. Was everyone going to be dropping innuendos all evening? “You're the one who suggested that I should get a flatmate.”

“I did, didn't I?” Mycroft mused. “It was sound advice.” He paused, looking down at his feet. “I haven't always offered you the best counsel when it comes to matters of the heart. I'm pleased things have worked out for you.”

Sherlock stared at Mycroft, speechless at his unusual candor.

Mycroft managed to crack a smile. “Must be the wine. Merry Christmas, little brother.” He lifted his glass in a salute, then sauntered away, a thumb hooked in his waistcoat.

The evening swirled on with dinner. John was seated across from Sherlock, their eyes occasionally lingering over the candle, their feet briefly caressing under the table between courses.

Afterwards came the obligatory piano and violin duet. Sherlock kept his eyes on the sheet music or on Mycroft’s hands, knowing that if he were to look up and find John gazing at him, the entire room would know their secret. He could not hide his feelings if he played for John.

The intensity of the music, the heady wine, the tension of having John so near yet forbidden made Sherlock’s body hum with desire.

As soon as the piece was finished, he pushed past the flushed faces and admiring comments. He brushed John's elbow and tilted his head toward the door, signaling that he should follow in a few minutes.

They met in the foyer, pulling on their coats, deciding to slip out to the glasshouse. Their feet crunched across the frosty lawn, the night blissfully quiet, the white clouds of their breath hanging in the air. In the distance, the bees clustered in their hives, waiting for the winter to end.

They entered the warm glasshouse, condensation clinging halfway up the window panes. The fragrance of exotic blooms wound around them, the flowers’ bright colors muted in the dim light.

Sherlock wordlessly pulled John close, pressing their hips together, capturing his mouth in a passionate kiss.

They finally drew apart, breathless. Sherlock felt light headed, intoxicated by John's touch. This was the sweetness he'd known, what he'd lost and had been searching for, what he vowed never to let slip away again.

John gazed into his eyes, smiling, then glanced up. “Look, snow.”

Billowy flakes sifted down from the black sky, clinging like cotton on tree branches and stems, melting like silent raindrops on the glass roof.

“Beautiful,” John said gently.

John would always be the one to remind him to see the beauty in the world, to look beyond the cold facts and hard science to embrace the very human foibles and passions that he had spent so many years trying to deny.

Sherlock lowered his gaze to John's. “I love you.”

John pulled him back into an embrace, kissing his lips softly. “I love you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, friends, I can't quite believe it, but we have reached the end. This story has been part of my life for almost a year, so I'm going to miss it. However, I'm looking forward to starting new things and catching up on a lot of fic reading. Thanks to all of you faithful readers who journeyed along with me as the story unfolded. Your encouragement and comments mean the world to me!


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